


What's Best Left Unsaid

by en_sorrow



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28415292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/en_sorrow/pseuds/en_sorrow
Summary: Two deeply internal people fall in love and barely realize it.
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Female Adaar/Blackwall | Thom Rainier
Comments: 19
Kudos: 28





	1. Close Encounters

Herah can’t stop thinking about the way he blocked that arrow when they first met. She had barely registered the sound of it, cutting through the air, before he had had his shield up. That had been kind of hot, if she admitted it, but there wasn’t anything else particularly attractive about him. 

Herah strolls through Haven. At first she was of a mind to check with everyone; if they’re settling in well, or have any concerns. That plan falls to the wayside after she remembers the last long, deeply interesting, and only sometimes condescending conversation with Solas she had, which she hadn’t been able to extricate herself from until the sun threatened the horizon. 

She’s in no mood to talk, and her mind instead goes to the Warden. By all accounts, he shouldn’t be attractive. She considers this rationally: he’s a little short, for a human man, aged, and she hadn’t quite been able to figure out if he was chubby, or if it was just his armor. 

Around the time she was considering his armor, or what he might look like outside of it, she found herself at the gates of Haven. She thinks about going back the way she came: she should really speak more with Josephine, as the woman had taken it upon herself to provide some much needed diplomatic education to the Qunari mage. 

Herah didn’t take any offense at the woman’s worries, they were well founded, and Herah was only barely outmatched in her real awkwardness by her imposing stature or the local beliefs about one such as her. The latter set of concerns usually had anyone that met her already pre-wrapped in beliefs about her, how she’d be, and if it didn’t, well, she could piss nearly anyone off with a few questions and a lack of familiarity with the local culture.  
Instead, Herah walks through the gates. She could speak with Cullen, or Cassandra, or Bull. Those are all options, but instead, she gives them a friendly nod as she passes by. 

She tells herself that she’s interested in looking at the horses, or checking in with the smith. As she pauses at the horses, another set of inappropriate thoughts come to mind. Who was she to be judging any one’s looks? As a child travelling with her parents’ mercenary band, she’d been greatly injured by an amateur bomb-maker, and she still bore the marks: heavy scarring trailed from the right side of her neck where it disappeared below her robes and stretched across much of her back and sides. 

While Bull might have some luck romantically, something whispered to Herah, in the back of her mind, that big, scary, and scarred was far more attractive to women (especially if Sera could be believed). 

No, she decided, looking over the workings of the smithy with what she hopes comes across as mild interest (the kind of interest that hopefully didn’t require anyone to come and see what the Qunari needed), she and Blackwall are two ugly people who didn’t need to be getting into each other's' business. 

She knew where this walk was taking her the whole time, but, still, she stands back a little and looks up at the breach, mirroring him. She can tell that he had noticed her: he had done the same when she first approached him, pretending not to notice. Then, he had been waiting for a threat to appear, but now, she suspects, he’s not particularly interested in speaking with her. 

“Warden Blackwall?” 

“Maker, will you look at that?” He turns slightly, letting her in, and she takes a step so she’s standing beside him. “You walked out of that-”

“Fell might be more appropriate,” he nods as she says it, a little humor in the movement. 

“Still, being that close?”

“Oh, I’m lucky I ever got any further away, if it wasn’t for inquisition soldiers-”

“Capturing you?”

She smiles, while that is also a more appropriate turn of phrase, she’s moving past it for the good of the inquisition, and her already strained relationship with Cassandra. “I’m endeavoring to use “rescued,” Josephine says that choosing our words is half the battle.”

He snorts, and she tries not to find that, the least attractive of laughs, cute, “I would have thought closing the breach would be a little higher on the list of priorities.” She nods, commiserating, and he continues, looking away. She knows the conversation is going somewhere he’s not entirely proud of. “You know, I’m a little surprised. I would have thought, well…”

Ah, this conversation, a conversation she seems to have with everyone. Everyone keeps asking why she’s a Qunari like she’ll be able to answer, but as she waits for him to find the words, it starts to look more and more like he won’t be completing his sentence. She does so for him, “I’m guessing you’d have thought the Herald would be human?”

She’s ready for nearly any response: the most common is a detailed list of reasons why the person asking dislikes Qunari or mages or Qunari mages, which only sometimes dallies into her failings specifically. Instead, Blackwall winces, doing a little nod. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“If you hadn’t already apologized, I’d tell you you don’t need to. At least you haven’t hissed “oxeman” at me, before toddling away after realizing who you just said that to,” she chuckles, but his face is dead serious, so she continues. She’s not used to having someone listen so intently to what she’s saying, “Humans are important to human religion, and a lot of people are setting me up as some kind of figure within connected with that religion, so I can see why my race might be confusing,” she says, and a mix of emotions cross his face, partially obscured by the beard, and he finally settles on light embarrassment.

“It was- well, I’m still sorry,” he glances up at the hole in the sky, “I should know by now that I don’t know much.” He still looks kind of disappointed in himself, and she lays a hand on his shoulder before even thinking about it. She doesn’t say anything, she can’t really talk him out of feeling bad for asking a stupid question. He eventually meets her eyes, “So, where do you fit in? It sounds like you’ve gotten used to people just, well, announcing where you do or don’t.”

She cringes internally, both because she’s had her hand on his shoulder for a decidedly awkward amount of time, but also because that might be the first time someone really asked her. It's her turn to look up at the breach, so as to ease the level of eye contact required, “Listen, I sound like a terrible addition to the inquisition when I say this, but I don’t really know. I’m just trying to do my best to fix the things that have gone to shit, you know?” 

She glances back at him, and he nods. She feels a little relief. She hadn’t realized, but it felt like confessing to a crime, telling someone else that she had no real idea as to why she was here or what she was doing. It doesn’t help that, and she realizes this suddenly, Blackwall’s someone she respects. 

She finally removes her hand from his shoulder, now feeling even more awkward. He gives her a reassuring smile, something that seems a little out of place on his grizzled face, but which reminds her of how she found him: teaching a bunch of gangly almost-men, still boys, how to defend themselves. “It’s good that you can say that, a little scary, of course, but it means you’re seeing yourself clearly.”

“Uh, thanks Blackwall. I appreciate it,” she’s a little surprised how much she appreciates it, but the two nod goodbye, before Herah walks off. She doesn’t know where she’s going either, but does spend a few moments watching the troops practice, for appearances’ sake. 

...

“Herah, could I have a moment?” Blackwall walks up to her, looking like a wet cat as the Storm Coast’s legendary weather pelts him, after they arrive at the base camp. 

She nods, despite the fact that her primary thought, at the moment, is how bad this trip is going to be. She grew up warm, and she had never really appreciated it until she came to this part of the world: whether it be rain or snow, Herah had formed the opinion that the best form water could take would be liquid, on the ground, and offering her the choice of whether she’d like to be soaked. 

When she doesn’t say anything further, he continues, “I know we’re in the area searching for Warden treaties, but if we get the chance I’d like to gather some of our artifacts, if we can, they might be useful?”

He doesn’t sound entirely convinced as to the last part, but she doesn’t prod him. If they were in the area anyway, she couldn’t see the harm in picking them up. Additionally, Blackwall hadn’t asked her for anything else, and she let a little smile slip, before remembering that she wasn’t interested in him, not at all. 

Then she realizes that they’re both standing in the rain, waiting for her to speak, as she stands there smiling, so she rushes a little as she says, “Of course we can Blackwall,” she pauses, “now, if you’ll excuse me-”

“Oh, of course-”

“I need to discuss the situation with Scout Harding,” she considers her next words, not wanting to appear eager, “and I’ll ask her if she’s seen anything like you’re looking for.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he does look thankful, even if the rain is making him look a touch like he’s melting. She doesn’t laugh, and she’s a little proud of herself for that.


	2. The Heavy and The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Herah and Blackwall do the wrong kind of falling.

The group; Herah, Solas, Blackwall and the Iron Bull; has split into pairs to search one of the windswept and watery mountain tops of the Storm Coast. Everyone has promised to stay within shouting distance, and, on Blackwall’s suggestion, each pair had a mage and a warrior, in case something went drastically wrong. Pairing with Blackwall had felt natural, even if she could palpably feel the intense dislike between Bull and Solas. 

Right now, wandering the edge of the very steep mountain, Herah’s a bit far off, mentally. She hasn’t seen any signs of the Wardens in the immediate area, and is instead studying the valley below, hoping she can spot a tent. She kicks a rock, and watches it arc off the side and bounce down with a clatter. 

She’s in her head about the mages and the templars: she knows who she’d pick, based on instinct and a general understanding, but she can’t figure out why, exactly, it's come down to her decision. Who was she to disagree with Cullen, a man with a wealth of training and experience in related matters? Or, if she changes her mind, who was she to disagree with Leliana, a woman who seemed to know just about anything worth knowing, and seemed to tacitly support the mages. 

Glancing out over the ocean, in the pounding rain, she allows herself to feel a little stupid and useless for a moment, especially with weather so appropriate for it. 

“Lady Adaar?” The question, from behind her, stirs her back to more earthly matters. He had taken to calling her that, and she wonders if it's to better cement her place within the inquisition, or its world. She somewhat appreciates this, if only because it was still deeply unclear as to what position she held.

She glances over her shoulder, “Yes, Warden Blackwall?”

“I’ve had no further luck in this area, should we meet back up with Bull and Solas?”

She turns fully toward him, scratching the base of one of her horns. “We can, I was just taking the moment to see if I might spot anything the scouts had missed,” she sweeps her arm out over the expanse, “but we have really good scouts.” He steps forward to stand beside her, and looks hard into the valley below. She waits for a moment, as he scans the area, “Spotted something?”

He shifts his weight between feet, “No, as you said, we have good scouts.”

“It's good of you to say that, because I was only guessing,” she gives him a little smile, which he returns, and she’s glad she could make light of a concern she had. She’d never ordered anyone, at this extent, to do anything, so she sometimes had very little idea as to someone’s effectiveness. For all she knew her scouts could have been secretly terrible, she wasn’t a scout. 

He looks out over the sea, “It's been awhile since I was at sea-” he says it in a tone that tells her he enjoyed it, and she’s not quick enough to hide the look of disgust that flashes across her face. She could swear he smirks, “Not a fan then?”

“Water and I are only friends in very certain situations.”

He nods sagely, still smiling slightly, and the impulse to grab his chin and turn him to face her surfaces briefly. She flexes her hand, and he speaks, entirely unaware of her thoughts: “I’ve got another stupid question, if you’ll-”

As he’s speaking, she turns toward him, and the shift in her weight loosens the stone beneath her. Herah screams, something which, later, would embarrass her, almost before she realizes she’s falling. Blackwall then makes a mistake, or, at least, a miscalculation. 

He grabs a hold of her arm, with the same speed as he blocked the arrow, but rather than stopping her from going over the edge, which she believes was his hope, her weight pulls him down with her. 

Blackwall also screams, and she pulls him into her arms as they slide and bounce down the steep decline. She wraps her arms around him, hoping he’ll land on her, rather than the reverse. She gets her wish, as they finally thud to a stop at the bottom. 

Her scream is cut off, strangled in her throat, as all of the wind is knocked out of her. Blackwall scrambles off of her, to kneel at her side, still breathing heavy. “Maker, are you okay?” He glances up the mountain, and back at her, and he sounds angry, “Why did you do that?”

She coughs, still trying to work out how to breathe again, which sends pain shooting through her. She takes another second, under his, she thinks ridiculous, anger, and is able to say, “Why did I fall off a mountain?” She smiles, trying to joke, but it turns to a grimace by the time she’s done speaking. 

“What? No, why did you protect me on the way down?”

Is that even a question? “Blackwall, I am heavy.” She likes how it sounds like she’s putting stress on each of the words, even though she’s just trying to breath through the many different, and freshly awful, kinds of pain she’s in. 

“I-” he considers what he’s going to say, “we probably weigh about the same, with my armor on, and unlike you, I’m far more expendable.”

“Well,” and he receives a full smile from her, “I don’t think that’s the case, and, anyway, I kind of hoped you’d appreciate not being gored by my horns.” She’s a liar, she hadn’t even thought about the horns before that second, but he looks at them, considering. She whacks him gently, with the back of her hand, somewhere in his middle, “It’s not a good way to go.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but worry quickly replaces that. “Well- well how are you doing? Anything broken?” 

She shakes her head, “I don’t think so, but I’m at the stage where I very much don’t want to move.” She doesn’t continue the statement, both understanding that things can be worse than they seem at first. She laughs, coldly, with pain furrowed brows: a laugh that tries to chase away worry, “You know Blackwall, you’re moving surprisingly well for a man who just fell off a mountain. I thought you weren’t “as young as you used to be,” she copies something she had heard him say in camp. 

He doesn’t engage with what she’s saying, instead shaking his head. “People like you are the worst-”

Her eyes jolt open with shock, and her eyebrows raise, almost comically, “I’m not sure now is the time-”

He cuts her off, wincing at her words, “No! Not what I meant- I meant people who laugh when they’re in pain.” This, combined with the misunderstanding, only makes Herah laugh again, which earns her a huff from Blackwall. 

She slowly moves her arms so she can push herself up, testing each inch of the way to make sure nothing undiscovered suddenly leapt out at her. She only gets about halfway before the strain is too much, “Blackwall, could you-” before she finishes her sentence, his arm wraps around her, under the armpits, and he helps her to sit up. Now is not the time to focus on how solid his arm feels, but she notices. “Uh, thank you.” 

He ignores her, he’s been distracted by her back. She turns her head slightly, winces, and thinks better of it, before asking, “How bad is it?” 

“Your shirt is all torn up, and with this scarring,” he swallows his next words, clearly unsure of how to approach her mangled back. 

She keeps her tone light, but she can’t quite place what emotion him seeing her scars evokes. It's not quite embarrassment, she’s not embarrassed by the scarring, or shame. It settles into regret in her chest, as she prods him, “Probably have a couple new ones from this, huh?” 

He shakes his head regretfully, “Maker, I’m sorry-” he cuts himself off, before changing direction. “Do you think you can move? If you can send up a flare, maybe we can get the others’ attention.” 

She reaches a hand toward the sky, but then drops her arm again. Blackwall gives her a look, and she explains, “If I send up a flare and they don’t see it, but someone else does, it could be very bad for us. I might be able to cast like this, but it might not be enough.” 

Blackwall sits back, off his knees, but keeps an arm around Herah, supporting her. “You’re right, but we’ve got to get you back to camp.”

“I, well-” she doesn’t want to embarrass him if the answer is no, but the question is important, “do you think you could help me walk, for a bit?” She’s unsure that her height or weight would be particularly conducive to the situation. 

He sounds a little exasperated, “If you think I’m weak, why bring me-”

Now it's her turn to rush into apology and explanation, although she does a poor job at it: “No, but do I think I’m quite big? And that that’s a perfectly uninsulting observation, to you? Yes, on both accounts.”

“Lady Adaar, I’m entirely confident I could carry you, if need be.” His tone is serious, and she can’t see his face. She’s grateful, because that means he can’t see hers, which reflects disbelief. She doesn’t say anything, but files the comment away as interesting. 

She pats his leg. “Well, I won’t challenge you on that right now, but you also just fell down a mountain, so I wouldn’t want you to get hurt too,” he grunts, and she restrains a chuckle upon realizing that he’s bristling a little. 

“Are you ready?” He asks, ignoring her concern. 

“If you are-” He grabs her beneath both armpits, and stands, pulling her up with him. She staggers a little, the pain in her back making itself well known, and he wraps an arm around her waist. Perhaps the old man is a little stronger than she might have given him credit for, considering the fact that he seemed to have had very little trouble. 

“Now, just grab me however you like,” Herah can’t avoid cocking an eyebrow, and Blackwall coughs, the accidental innuendo passing without further comment. She settles on wrapping an arm around his neck. ”Now, which way are we headed?”

They have two options, they could try to go to the path up the mountain, which would take them closer to the rest of the group, which might net them more help, but which would be far more difficult, or they could take the coast, and work their way back to camp, an easier route. 

She gestures with her chin, and they start the slow process of walking. Even though they’re taking the latter option, she looks down at his head, considering checking in with him again that everything was alright. She doesn’t. 

“I’d say that this nets you one free, stupid question, if you remember it?”

He glances up at her, and she thinks that she can see a small blush, almost completely hidden by the beard. His eyes return forward as they continue walking, “I could say that taking the bulk of that fall would net you an out, if you didn’t want to deal with an old man’s stupid questions-”

She feels a little bad, even if she’s had the thought before, “You’re not- well, actually, now I’m curious, and we’ve got a long walk. I’ll think of my own stupid question, and then we’ll be even.” 

“Alright- is it a Qunari thing, not liking the water? I understand dwarves are more dense-”

She snorts, cutting him off, “No, it's very much a me thing. I’ve just never been a particular fan, I suppose-”

“Oh, of course,” he sounds embarrassed.

“Blackwall, that barely even counts as a stupid question: like you said, dwarves are more dense,” her mouth is running and she hopes it sounds friendly. “Don’t you have any other really terrible ones, like “why are you Qunari?” She punctuates the statement with a laugh, and she almost misses his, far quieter and almost completely contained to a shake of his shoulders. 

“No, Lady Adaar, not at the moment, but I’m sure I can think of some-”

They pause for a minute as they reach the beach, both catching their breath. “Hey, no, it's my turn. Suppose I can’t ask why you’re a human, that seems normal, and I don’t want you to think I have a head injury.”

“Oh, there’s probably something wrong with your head,” he says, then realizing how harsh it might sound, he raises the hand not wrapped around her waist, “I meant-”

He’s clearly not expecting her to laugh quite so hard, as he places a hand on her stomach to steady them. “Oh, definitely, the fact I didn’t take off running the first chance I got, for one.” He doesn’t say anything, instead retreating a little within himself, even as they begin their way forward, again. 

It takes a few steps, but she thinks she’s found a really great, awful question, “Okay, so, I think I have one? Are you ready?”

“Oh, as ready as I’ll ever be.”

She blurts it out fast, before she can lose her nerve, “Do beards smell in the rain?” He lets out a single guffaw, half choking on the laugh. While Qunari men can grow beards, it's far rarer for women to do so, and she had never had the occasion to be close to somebody with a beard when they were wet. 

“What would-” 

“Honestly, I’m imagining horses, or dogs-”

His shoulders shake with barely restrained laughter, and despite the fact that it's technically at her expense, she can feel a smile creep across her face as he answers. “No- I mean, I suppose if the one with a beard is stinky, then it’d smell like him.” She finds she likes his laugh, which doesn’t bode well for her mental insistence that she didn’t have even a slight crush on him. “Why, do you plan on smelling many beards?”

She pauses for a moment, trying to guess if that was flirting, before brushing it off. “Can’t say I’ve planned much recently,” she says, “although my plot to get a Warden to carry me around seems to be going well.” She doesn’t know why she says it, but before he can answer, camp mercifully comes into view. “And now I’m planning to get some scouts to collect the rest of our party, and falling immediately asleep.”

“That is certainly a plan I can approve of, not to sound more like the old man, but a nap would be excellent right now.” She regrets checking in on him so much, even if it was, she feels, necessary. 

“Well, we can both be old for a little while, I think we’ve earned it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this story for a while, so if I have any readers, please don't expect such quick updates in the future.


	3. Handle With Care

Herah wakes up, groggy, sore, and displeased to find that she can’t have slept long. Outside the sun must be setting, the only light is a dull red glow through her tent walls. She listens to the sounds of camp, and is pleased to hear that the rest of the group must be back. 

Her shirt lays in tatters next to her, but she sincerely regrets sleeping in her wet pants and breastband. Herah sighs, knowing even if she gets up and gets fully changed, she won’t be getting warm at all tonight. 

She rolls to her side, and is pleased to find that, although her back is still raw and sore, movement’s easier. Her bed roll is soaked though, and she didn’t care for her wounds, both of which she kicks herself for. She’s better than that, needs to be better than that, at least, if she’s going to be this thing that everyone wants her to be. 

Someone pats her tent, testing to see if she’s asleep. She knows who she hopes it is, but she also hopes it isn’t him, as she has a feeling he’d be disappointed in her. “Hello,” she calls out, before realizing that she could have pretended to be asleep. 

The man she was thinking of calls out, “Can I come in?” 

She pulls up the blanket to cover her top half, feeling the damp part, where it laid over her pants, slide against her stomach. She doesn’t know what she wants to say, so she lets her mouth lead, “Go ahead.” 

He enters, lantern first, and she’s even more embarrassed to see that he’s gotten fully changed. He stands a little awkwardly in the middle of her tent for a moment. She points to the stool in the corner, and he grabs it, moves it closer to her, and sits down.

He sets the lantern down, and she feels a twinge in her gut: fires can start like that, very easily. She doesn’t chastise him, as she has no room to talk about responsibility at the moment. 

She can barely see his face, the flickering light leaving much of him in shadow. “How are you doing?” 

“Much better.” She pauses, looking for the words, but settles on what’s simplest: “Thank you again.” He looks around, noticing the remains of her shirt beside her, but he doesn’t remark on it.  
Instead he pulls a waterskin off his belt and hands it to her. “You’re probably thirsty.” She sits up, trying not to give away the fact that the movement still doesn’t, exactly, feel good, and uses one hand to hold the blanket firm over her chest. 

She grabs it from him with a grateful smile, and notices he’s very intentionally not looking. She tries not to smile too hard as she starts to drink, but when the liquid reaches her mouth, it is decidedly not water. 

She coughs, hard, as whatever liquor he has inside it burns the back of her throat. “Blackwall, I thought this was water,” she growls in the back of her throat, trying to ease the burn. 

He ducks his head, laughing, embarrassed, “Maker, I forgot-”

“Don’t worry about it, probably do me some good- if you don’t mind me drinking it?” She glances up at him, and is pleased to see that he’s grown more comfortable, now able to meet her eyes. 

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, you don’t take a drink away from a lady,” she could swear he winks, but it's dark enough that it could have been a trick of the light. She holds the waterskin up, cheering him, before taking a deep drink of it. The burn isn’t so bad when she’s ready for it. 

She caps it, handing it back to him, and quickly, as though on impulse, he uncaps it and takes a drink too. He lets out a little breath after, a sound that she likes. She looks up at him from where she’s laying, “So, coming to check on me?”

He shifts his weight on the stool, busying himself by replacing the waterskin on his belt. “Somebody had to, and considering I took you sledding down a mountain, it should probably be me.” He sounds regretful, but she laughs. He’s more serious when he continues, “I’m glad you could find the humor in it.” 

He almost sounds angry, and she responds, “I didn’t die, did I?” She’s actively trying to keep her tone light, but she can see it doesn’t work on him. 

His jaw hardens a little, under his beard, but he doesn’t press. “I spoke with one of the scouts, he said you hadn’t been by to grab any supplies,” she still can’t place if he’s mad at her or himself. The way his shoulders settle, she decides it's both.

She had some idea that this conversation might go like this, and despite the fact that he’s right, she knows he’s right, she should have taken care of her wounds, she tries to justify it: “No, thought a lie down would do it, and my back isn’t that bad. Honestly just feels like a couple of scrapes.” 

Wordless and tense, he pulls two little mirrors, barely more than tiny curves of polished metal, out of the small pouch hanging over his shoulder. He picks up the lantern, and hands her one, before shining the light on her back. “Look for yourself,” his voice is gruff, and she feels distinctly like a foolish young recruit at the moment. 

The flickering light and the quality of the mirrors don’t help, but she sees at least one sizable gash under her shoulder blades that’s still weeping. Besides that, her skin is raw, a large scrape fills up what she can see through their system of mirrors. 

His attention isn’t on her back, but is instead on her bedroll. She can guess what he sees, considering the state of her back. He glances at her face, and when she looks like she’s seen it well enough, he leans back on the stool. She hands him the mirror she was using, and can tell from the movement in his hands that he’s not pleased. He sets the lantern down heavily, and crosses his arms over his chest. 

She decides that, despite the fact she was prepared for this, she distinctly hates the feeling of Blackwall, specifically, being disappointed or angry or, well, whatever this is, at her. “Listen, Blackwall, I was planning to take care of it-”

He sighs, frustration clear in the sound. He lays a gloved hand on her shoulder, and catches her eyes. “You do not have the luxury of being careless.” 

Now she’s a little angry, mostly at herself, but the only person available to be defensive towards is Blackwall. “I’m not being careless-” she shrugs his hand off, and he drops it to his side, brow furrowing.

“Oh, and if it had gotten infected? And, on the mountain, if you’d died protecting me? You do know that that mark is the only thing-”

She smiles bitterly, interrupting him, “The only thing useful about me, maybe.” 

“You know that’s not what I was saying-”

“But it’s true! I’m pretty good, but I’m not the best mage, or diplomat, in fact, I can think of a couple situations in which I actively made things worse-” she moves her hands in front of her, wincing, and the pain brings her back within herself. Words come to mind to describe herself: petulant is chief among them.

Blackwall shrugs his shoulders, slight surprise and anger fighting on his face. “Fine, you want to be pitiful? Go ahead, but I don’t think that’s who you are-” his voice is a little louder than he’d like, and he quiets as he continues, “I know that’s not who you are.”

Before she can stop herself, she spits out, “You don’t know anything about me.” She crosses her arms over her chest and looks to the front of the tent. 

She’s surprised at how much his sigh can communicate, and she feels bad at how harsh that was. She doesn’t make much of an effort to be known by others, after all, and she realizes, in the queasy afterglow of her anger, that this whole conversation is just one more thing for her to regret. 

“No, I suppose I don’t, but…” he pauses, his tone softer, nearly all the anger gone out of it, “but I know what I’ve seen, and I can tell you, despite some foolishness, I’ve never been more sure of my decision to follow you.” 

She still can’t look at him, now settling into her embarrassment, and mutters, “Oh, I’m sure-”

“It's good that you’re doubting, it’ll keep you grounded, but what I’ve seen?” She can see him shake his head in her peripheral vision. “I think- well, you’re admirable.”

Now she turns to face him, a little quickly, pulling at the scabbed parts of her back. “You admire me?”

“Of course I do,” he says, almost too quietly for her to hear. She considers how to answer that, but misses the moment as he quickly changes the conversation, “Well, anyways, I had a suspicion you wouldn’t have cared for it- youth- so I brought some supplies. Do you need help laying on your front?”

She isn’t given any room to deny the help, so instead she turns her body, careful not to tear a hole in the side of her tent with her horns. She pulls the blanket with her, laying on it, and lays her head on her arms. She’s just barely able to look at him from this position, and she side-eyes him. 

His is all business, scanning her back, before he kneels beside her and removes his gloves. Thinking about his bare hands touching her is a short-lived pleasure. “This one,” he pokes near the larger gash, only to jerk back his hand when she hisses through her teeth, “is going to need stitches, and, fortunate or not, I can do them.”

“That’s, well, it's good to know-” she yelps as he does something that makes her back scream with pain. 

He holds a small rock between his fingers, showing her, “This was embedded in you,” he says gruffly. He brushes a light hand over the injured area, clearly searching for any other debris. Still, it sends a shiver up her spine. 

“I wonder if it would have felt better if I had got some help earlier,” she says, and that’s as close to an apology as she’ll allow. 

“This wouldn’t have,” he says, a little warmth returning to his voice. She glances back again, and he’s dabbing something on a cloth. Before she can ask, he begins to pat the raw spots on her back with it, and she grits her teeth. She’s determined not to fuss her way through this admittedly very nice thing he’s doing. 

He stops, clearly weighing something in his mind. He pokes at the back of her breast band. “This thing is still soaked, and it’d be easier to stitch you up if it wasn’t on.” He doesn’t actually get to the point where he’s asking, instead clearing his throat. She reaches back, to undo the ties, and he shoos her hand away with his, before undoing it himself. 

She knows that nothing about this is sexual, realistically. This is, at most, two- friends? She decides she’d call him a friend, then, and this is just a friend helping the other out. That doesn’t stop her mind from wondering if it might feel nice to have his calloused hands on her, in a different situation. Not to mention the heat in her stomach that having him undo her breast band has created. 

“Well, it's time for the main event,” he sounds practically mournful about it, and she laughs. 

“Your tone doesn’t do much in the way of inspiring confidence Blackwall.”

“Well, let’s just say I can get it closed. The fact that you’ll definitely have another-” he cuts himself off. 

“Scar? Don’t worry, you can say it, I’m not sensitive about them,” and she keeps her tone light, because it's largely true, having had them for the majority of her life, and having heard nearly every awful comment she thinks exists, regarding them. 

What she doesn’t say is that it would hurt if Blackwall said anything, but she wouldn’t be particularly surprised. She mulls that over: perhaps she would, somewhat, if only because of the idea she has about him in her head. 

“How did-” he stops with a hum, “you know what, not my place to ask,” he says quietly. She smiles despite how vulnerable she’s feeling, laid half nude in front of him. Most of the time people didn’t even ask: some were happy to demand an answer, others liked to make something up. Before she can answer, he rushes to say, “Well, I’m going to start, you let me know if you need something to chew on?”

She nods, and can see, out of the corner of her eye, that he’s put a little pair of glasses on. They fit his face well, and the urge to call him cute is chewed up and swallowed before it can emerge into action. 

“I’ll be alright-” the needle sinks through her skin, and she can feel every movement. She clenches her jaw. 

One of his hands smooths over her shoulder, and he tells her, “Relax.” She wonders if he knows how hard he just made that for her, but she turns her head to the other side, facing the wall of the tent, and tries to let some of the tension out of her back. Even though she knows a blush won’t show well on her face, she still feels the need to hide it. 

He continues with the stitches, and to take her mind off that, among other things, she starts talking: “So, the big scar then, that’s what the curiosity is about, right?”

His hands pause, and he sounds a little embarrassed, “You don’t have to... well, yes.” He continues with his work. 

“You know I was a merc, right? Before?” He hums affirmatively, and she continues, “Well, my parents were too. I basically came from a family of mercenaries, and I travelled with them as a kid.”

“Tough situation, having kids around,” he mutters. It doesn’t sound as judgmental, so she makes the decision not to take it that way. 

“It happens, if you get enough people travelling together for long enough,” she sucks air through her teeth as he tugs, “anyways, around the time I was five or so, we had a guy on, called himself Blast. Man could make some of the most beautiful fireworks, which is what I liked, or he could get you in anywhere, which is probably why he had the job.”

“Never liked working around explosives,” Blackwall interjects as he clips a string.

“He was pretty good at what he did. The night it happened, best as anyone could tell, him and a lady friend were having some fun near the wagons. One of them kicked over a lantern, and the thing went up in flames- from all accounts- quicker than anything else,” she pauses, a little surprised at how open she’s being. 

The few people she’s told in the past have received a significantly shortened story. “It exploded, because of course it was the wagon where he kept his things, and apparently it killed them both right away. The blast,” she lets out a single laugh, “sent flaming chunks of wagon throughout the camp, and the flames caught and spread to the tents.” 

Blackwall swears under his breath, and she can’t tell if it's because of her story, or because he’s having a rough time getting through her skin. That’s one Qunari thing she could have warned him about. One of his hands rests on the small of her back, applying pressure at times to steady his other.

“The whole thing was a mess. My parents had been out by the fire, so I woke up, just surrounded by flame- I couldn’t find my way out, and I eventually jumped through, which saved my life, but I caught on fire too,” she hurries the story, not wanting to sound pitiful, she didn’t want or need to be pitied for this. “Unfortunately I don’t remember much after that, except that it was expensive to fix, but somebody got me out.”

“That’s awful,” he says, his voice is gentle, and his fingers ghost the edge of the scar. 

“It was a long time ago,” she resists the need to shrug nonchalantly, and aims for a joke instead, “just make sure you’re careful with that lantern, it's high on my list of experiences I wouldn’t like to repeat.” 

He must be finished, as he dabs the area with whatever stung before, which still stings. “And what about falling off a mountain?”

She laughs, “Barely even ranks.” She can hear the click of him taking off the glasses and folding them, “All done doctor?” He snorts, and she’s glad that the mood between them seems repaired. 

He puts a hand on her shoulder, sounding as serious as he can. “Now, don’t argue with me on this,” she kind of likes the authoritative tone he’s taken, “but you should get changed and then come to my tent- your bedroll is a mess, and you’re going to use mine. I’ll sleep on the ground.”

She lets out an exasperated breath, “You’ve got to be kidding me: there is absolutely no way I’m going to have you sleeping on the ground after you came in here and- and- did all this stuff for me.” 

He stands, brushing off his lap, “Consider it payback.” Before she can argue anymore, he’s gone, and she lays there for a minute, considering everything that just occurred. She realizes she’s breathing heavy, like a teenager, and she pushes the thought away. 

She gets changed very quickly, then waits in her tent for several minutes, so as not to appear enthused at the prospect of Blackwall’s tent. When she feels like she’s waited a normal amount of time, despite the voice in the back of her head saying that normal people wouldn’t have felt the need to wait several anxious minutes in order to achieve the appearance of normality. 

It’s dark out, and she tries not to look at the vast churning darkness of the sea. She calls out at the entrance of his tent, “Blackwall?”

“Come in.” She does, and tries not to enjoy the rich scent of him in the air, of freshly cut wood. He’s sitting on a little stool of his own, with his arms crossed over his chest. She glances at the bedroll, and he speaks up, “Get some rest.”

She has to crouch slightly to stand in these tents, and she puts her hands on her hips. “We haven’t figured out where you’ll sleep.”

He peers at her, “I can sleep like this.”

She shakes her head, laughing, “Like I said, there’s absolutely no way I’m going to let you sleep on the floor-”

He smiles, “I’m on a stool, and quite good at sleeping sitting up.”

She kneels, crawling under the covers, and is intensely grateful not to be sleeping in her own damp tent. She lays on her side, putting an arm under her head to help prop her horns up, and watches him. His eyes close, head bobbing forward, before he jolts awake again. 

She shakes her head, feeling a little impulsive, and says, “Just come lay down.” She moves her body closer to the wall, so there’s more room, and waves him toward her. 

He shifts his weight on the stool, and suddenly finds something interesting on the back of his hand to pick at. “No, no… no. I couldn’t, it wouldn’t be appropriate.” 

She snorts, “Fuck “appropriate” for a minute, I promise any rumors of Qunari eating their bedmates,” something she’d actually heard whispered in a bar once, “are greatly overstated.” He chuckles nervously, and she waves her hand, beckoning him over. 

She can tell from his posture that he wants to argue more. Now she’s sure he’s blushing, the color creeping out from under the thick hair of his beard, but he stands stiffly and blows out the candle. 

In the pitch black, he shuffles toward where she’s laying, betrayed only by the low sound of his breathing- is it quicker than normal, she wonders- and the searching movement of his feet. He lays down, with his back to her. His voice is a little muffled, but he says, “You’re lucky, any other night and I’d have had the energy to keep arguing.”

She feels herself giggle, an embarrassing sound, “You’re not, I snore.”

Even though she can’t see him, she can hear a smile in the shape of his words, “Oh, I do too.”

She falls asleep before he does, to the slow sound of his breathing. 

…

“Herah-” she awakes with a grunt at her name, and realizes why she’s being woken up. At some point in the night, the pair must have shifted, because they’re not laying how they fell asleep. 

His back is pressed against her front, and her arm has wrapped around his waist. Perhaps worst of all, worse than just accidentally spooning such a sober man, is that one of her legs is laid over his hip. She hadn’t slept with many people, so she didn’t know if she just had a tendency to wrap herself around others in her sleep, or if he was a special circumstance.

She scrambles back off of him, “I am so sorry.” Her face is warm from more than sleep, and she sits up, abruptly. 

He doesn’t look at her yet, but sits up beside her, stretching a little. His voice is gravelly, and he shifts his weight like he’s uncomfortable. “Don’t worry about it, although you weren’t wrong about the snoring.” 

They both laugh, and he says the next part quickly, like he’s trying not to think about it, “It’s been a while since I woke up next to a beautiful woman, anyways.” He punctuates this with a laugh too, and she tries very hard not to read anything into the compliment, even though she responds only with a dazed little smile.

Before she can even really process what he said, he stands, and she rushes to her feet at the same time. She smiles down at him, their faces close, and she finds he’s kind of handsome in the low light, sleep still clinging to his face. She speaks first, “I should get going,” he nods, “but thank you.”

“See you later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these chapters have been of erratic length. This one kind of needed it, because I know if I was reading and this was split into two I might be a little aggravated. The chapters will probably continue to be however long they need to be, but I promise that they won't keep growing exponentially. I also wanted to thank those of you who left kudos! It's really exciting to receive them, especially when I was so nervous about writing fanfiction and posting it. I'd really love to read any comments you have, but I also understand that it can take some time to think of any: I know I read a lot of fanfiction before ever leaving a comment.


	4. If I Asked?

After Redcliffe, Herah’s taken to long walks through Haven, at night. She’s never had trouble sleeping before, not since she was a child and the pain of healing had kept her awake for days on end.

That being said, she couldn’t talk much about the future, outside of dry reports, with anyone except Dorian, and she didn’t feel that someone newly recruited to the inquisition needed to hear all about her anxieties regarding that terrible future.

The other people who had been there; Leiliana, Blackwall, and Cassandra, were perhaps the most difficult to speak with. The other Leiliana, the one that had died for her, had impressed upon Herah that what they had experienced was very real, and Herah couldn’t quite break from the feeling that she should be mourning, despite Redcliffe ultimately having been a victory for the inquisition.

Although it's past midnight (she walks very late at night, as it wouldn’t do for the Herald to be seen listlessly wandering through Haven, night after night), she can still hear light sounds of life from the tavern.

She considers the tavern. Herah had never been much of a drinker, and she doubted now would be the time to start, but it sounded nice to enter the tavern when it wasn’t filled to brimming with sound and clatter, or eyes that stuck and clung to her every movement.

As she enters, Bull is on his way out. Herah smiles at him, nodding her head. She plans to leave it at that, but Bull stops her. Despite the fact that Herah has no great hand for spying, Bull had always struck her as an excellent one, and above his friendly smile is a practiced eye. “You’re up late, Boss, shame I’ll miss you.”

She can feel herself smile a little too hard, trying to make up for the fact that she’s embarrassed, “Ah, I got woken up, and I could still hear people in here-”

“Sure, no need to explain,” she doesn’t know if she’s assigning him motives because he’s Ben-Hassarath, but she feels like she’s being examined. He steps through the door, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight!” She says, a little too quickly, before she lets out a breath as he leaves. It’s toughest to hide her insecurities around him, she thinks.

Refreshingly, no one even looks as she goes further in. She halts, noticing Blackwall at the bar. His back is turned to her, and she considers turning back around and leaving. She had planned for a quiet beer, and seen not just one, but two of her inner circle. Plus, she wouldn’t want to sit elsewhere and have him notice, making him think she was avoiding him.

She shakes her head, urging herself to act normal, and sits next to him at the bar. He’s in the middle of taking a drink of his own mug, so he doesn’t notice for a second. When he glances over, he sets his mug down and coughs. She smirks, because with that little show of shock, she’s finally approached him without him noticing and pretending not to.

She gives him a friendly pat on the back, “Sorry Blackwall, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

He sits up a little, the easiest smile she’s ever seen from him appearing on his face. “There’s a first time for everything Lady.” He’s not drunk, but he’s clearly loosened a little, especially in the way he holds his shoulders and the lines on his forehead.

Herah makes a faux-insulted face, surprised at how quickly she’s slipped from her earlier melancholy, and signals the bartender. “I’ll have one of whatever he’s had,” the woman nods and busies herself, so Herah leans closer to Blackwall and whispers, “by the way, what are you having?”

Blackwall’s obviously having a good time at this point as well, as he answers in an equally conspiratorial whisper, “No idea, tastes of piss though.” Herah covers her mouth to quiet down the guffaw wants to rip through her, and Blackwall laughs deep in his chest.

“Now, are you allowed to tell me why you know what piss tastes like, or is that a Warden secret?” Herah can feel much of the tension leave her body.

Blackwall withdraws slightly, she can see it in his posture, but he takes a sip of it, making a comical show of thinking it through. “You know, Lady Adaar, I wasn’t always a Warden.”

The bartender sets Herah’s mug down in front of her, and Herah nods a thank you. Herah takes a sip and makes a face. The bartender hovers around them, interested, but trying to appear the opposite. Herah leans in so she’s speaking close to Blackwall’s ear, “Well, if this is what piss tastes like, I feel sorry for the plants.”

Blackwall laughs, but there’s a different tone to it- a little nervous, she thinks, but she’s not sure why- and he sits up straighter. Herah has to move a little to avoid knocking him on the head with her horns, and she sits back in her chair, in case her proximity had caused this effect on him.

Hoping to get back on track, she smiles, “So, is this one of the ones that gets better the more you drink?” Herah takes another sip, and out of the corner of her eye she catches Blackwall glancing down her form. His eyes return to her face the second she sets the cup down, and now she’s a little unsure. Maybe she has a stain on her shirt.

  
She glances at the door, if only to have something to look at besides his face, and then back at him. He’s taking a drink, and she figures fair is fair. She’s seen him out of armor before, of course, she’d slept next to the man, but she had made it a point of not looking at him.

Of particular interest is the shirt: the sleeves end halfway up the arm, showing off his muscular forearms, and the neckline, while not as generous as Varric’s, does allow for a glimpse of thick, dark chest hair.

She’s apparently less subtle in her viewing of him, as he coughs before answering her, “No, or if it is, I’m not willing to drink enough of it to find out.” He’s got an odd look in his eyes, somewhere between curiosity and mirth, and he matches her when she smiles. “So, did you get tired of wandering around all night, or did you come to see me?”

She’s not sure which she’s more surprised by; that he’d noticed her late-night walks, or that, if she’s reading him correctly, that was flirting. “Oh, um-” she takes a drink, trying to rapidly think of a way to respond which would come off as receptive to flirting, but wouldn’t read as flirting if she had read him wrong, “-I didn’t know you were here, but I am glad to see you.”

He angles himself toward her more on the bar stool, almost touching her knee with his, “And I, you.” He moves to grab his drink without looking at it, and instead knocks it over. The two of them burst up from their stools to avoid it spilling on them, and the bartender looks decidedly unimpressed.

Herah starts to apologize, “Oh, we’re so sorry-”

“No, I’m sorry, why would you be-”

The bartender, smiling thinly, nods. “Yes. Thank you. It is fine. We are, however, closing shortly, so if you wouldn’t mind…” She begins cleaning up the mess, while looking expectantly at the door. Herah glances around, and notices that the two of them are the last patrons in the bar.

Blackwall moves to help the bartender, but Herah stops him by placing a hand on his shoulder. He looks up at her, and she winks, a movement so unnatural to her that she’s entirely sure she must have fucked it up in some way. “Come on, Warden, I think we’ve caused enough trouble for tonight.” He looks stunned, but the two of them leave the bar giggling like a pair of kids.

There’s something different about laughing outside late at night, and the two pause as the door to the bar swings shut behind them: neither of them are in a hurry to end this- whatever it is.

Blackwall speaks first. “Why don’t I walk you back-” he pauses, clearly searching for an excuse as to why he should walk her to her quarters.

She waggles her finger at him, enjoying the release of tension earned by the light buzz she has on. “No, no- I should walk you back- you’re further.”

She thinks he might argue, but instead he holds up his arm, like he’s escorting her to a dance, “Lead the way Herald.” She lays a hand on his forearm, and they start off together, slower than if they were really just walking to get to a place.

She glances down at him, only to find that he’s looking up at her, “You know you can call me Herah, right?”

He smiles, “What if you forgot who you are?”

She groans, “At this point I’m worried about forgetting my own name: trust me, I have enough people reminding me of who I am.”

“Well…” he pauses, making his tone like a mildly disapproving teacher, “if you absolutely insist, Herah.” At her name, she smiles wide. They walk, and she wonders if he might volunteer his name, beyond Blackwall, but he doesn’t, and she doesn’t pry.

They’re at the gates of Haven far too soon for her liking, and so she stops for a moment, to look up at the stars. The glow of the Breach has hidden many of them, but she still enjoys them, and her hand on Blackwall’s arm. She’s very conscious of it, trying not to squeeze or feel the thick hair there, but she can’t say she minds.

He calls her attention back to earth, “You seem like one for stars, out of reach, beautiful.”

She snorts, as though to undercut the compliment, but as they continue walking, she says, “You know what? You’re oddly charming, for a man I thought I might have to tackle and bring back to the Haven dungeons.” One of his eyebrows raise, and she elaborates, “If the Wardens were involved, and you knew and were in support, our first meeting may have gone somewhat differently-”

“Ah,” he nods his head, “I’m glad you didn’t tackle me… then,” his flow of thought seems to escape him for a minute, but obviously reorders itself back to the compliment, “and thank you, although I might be more odd than charming.”

They stand outside the small house where he sleeps, but neither make an attempt to break, either the contact or from each other. “Oh, might be?”

He looks at the ground, smiling, “Well, I know better than to avoid a compliment, especially from a lady. Both are rare these days.”

Her heart flutters in her chest, and she can feel her cheeks burn. Almost as though she is outside her body, her hand moves from his arm to cup his face. He looks up at her, shocked, but doesn’t move- doesn’t tell her to stop. She runs a thumb over the place on his cheek where his beard ends, feeling the wiry texture.

She leans down, the clouds of their breath mixing, and pauses- asking without words. His hand comes up to rest on the back of her neck, and neither move for a long moment, each trying to read the others’ eyes.

She moves first, closes her eyes and kisses him. She keeps it rather chaste: not rushing him, but the hand on the back of her neck pulls her closer, and his other hand reaches out, to touch her however he can, and rests on her ribcage.

She opens her mouth, and he deepens the kiss. She slides her tongue in, but his moustache tickles her, and she laughs into his mouth. He smiles against her kiss, and they part, only as much as they need to, lips still close enough to return to their last activity at any moment.

“What?” He asks, his smile so wide it's like he’s a new man, as his eyes dart around her face.

She’s embarrassed, and she giggles, her breath billowing out around them like clouds in the cold air. “I didn’t realize it’d tickle,” she runs her fingers through his beard and feels as a shiver runs through him. He presses forward again, kissing her, a little needier as he takes the lead. His tongue brushes the roof of her mouth, and hers runs along the underside of his.

They break, finally, regretfully, smiling so hard it feels like her face might break. He takes a step away, looking regretful, “I should go to bed, and you should too.” It’s clear he means separately, and Herah nods.

She takes several steps away, as he opens his door and stands at the threshold. “Goodnight Herah.”

“Goodnight Blackwall,” she watches as he shuts the door, and then walks back to her quarters. It was clear he wanted to kiss her, at the very least, and that he didn’t find the idea displeasing. She can’t find anything to worry about, with regard to this interaction, but she does. Does he wish she was shorter, or easier to move around: well, then again, she reminds herself, he can definitely move her.

She barely realizes it, but the walk back takes far less time than the walk there. At least, she thinks, she’ll have something else to think about as she falls asleep tonight, if she can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two achievements: this is my first post this year, and this isn't the longest chapter. Despite my assurances otherwise, I was becoming sincerely worried that each chapter would be longer than the last.


	5. When the Time is Wrong

She’s had an ache in her throat since the destruction of Haven, like she’d swallowed a rock and was struggling to speak around it. She’s almost surprised every time she speaks and a voice comes out, just the same as her voice before. 

She’d filed what felt like endless reports on the subject, but the most persistent memory, or feeling, she had was that of heat. It had been a chill evening, and then everything was on fire. The heat of burning homes and dragon’s breath, the sickly warmth of Corypheus’ hand around her wrist, the fire erupting from the tip of her staff, or the violence in how she lost her stomach when she emerged from the cave and was nearly sent into shock by the rapid shift in temperatures. It all had a nightmare like quality to it, like the dim memories of the tent fire she’d had so long ago. 

Her sleeping issues persist, but, at least, she has plenty to be busy with here at Skyhold. Everyone has needed something from their new inquisitor: Sera needed comfort, Varric and Cassandra needed to be pulled apart, and Cole needed permission to stay. Bull had helped Herah more than she had helped him: putting on a disguise and speaking with her soldiers with him has been good, even if she knew someday she might recognize their names on a list of casualties. 

Herah hasn’t spoken to Blackwall, privately or at any length, since the kiss. During the day, as repairs are underway, he’s in the upper yard, helping as he can. Whenever she passes, he meets her eyes: he wants to talk to her. It’s not that she’s unhappy about the kiss, or unhappy with him, and she can’t quite put to words why she’s avoiding him. She thinks it’s almost inappropriate to feel like this, for him, after something like Haven. 

Finally, he’s the one to make contact. As the sun sets, draping the courtyard in shadow, he steps toward her as she passes. “H- Inquisitor,” he says, correcting himself as he starts to use her name, and she feels a touch of indigestion at that strange and ridiculous title coming out of his mouth.

She’s not so cruel as to feign that she didn’t hear him and keep walking, even if the thought had appeared to her. She stops where she is, at somewhat of an uncomfortable distance to have a conversation, and says, “Yes, Warden?” 

He glances at the space between them, “Come walk the ramparts with me.” He turns without waiting for her answer, and she doesn’t know if she’s grateful- that she doesn’t have to think about it- or angry- that he expects her to follow. She does anyway, staying several steps behind him even though she could easily catch him. 

He never glances back. They eventually reach his destination, a quiet spot on the walls that overlooks the valley below, bathed in the golds and reds of sunset. He leans against the wall, looking out, and she stops several feet back from him. 

“We should be able to see Corypheus coming from miles away.” She can’t tell anything from his tone, and he doesn’t look at her as he speaks. 

She crosses her arms over her chest, but her tone is far softer than her posture. “He could see us too.” 

He finally looks at her, frowning slightly, and she feels examined. “I wanted to say- Inquisitor- I wanted to say I’m sorry,” she can can feel the surprise plain on her face, and he rushes to explain, “the kiss-”

She shakes her head rapidly, taking a step toward him, and dropping her arms. “No, you don’t have anything to be sorry about-”

“I shouldn’t have-”

In a terrible moment she thinks she knows what’s going on, she’s made him feel unwanted. “Blackwall, no, it’s not the kiss and it’s not you, I like you-” the confession spills out of her mouth easier than any of the words she’s said since Haven, “it’s just-” she takes another step toward him, holding out her hands, “it hurts to see you.” 

He takes a step backwards, and she resists the urge to pursue. “I like you too,” then he turns his back to her and she can feel her face drop, because she knows he can’t look at her, and she can guess what that means. “But these feelings- this, whatever this is, it can’t be.”

She clears her throat as the burning sensation there strengthens, trying to form a question “If we both-”

“Inquisitor,” he says pointedly, “I need to be like any other soldier under your command.” He rolls his shoulders, “Many will die, and I need to be able to do so if needed.”

She knows there’s something else here, beneath it all and within him, but it feels like she caused this, with her waiting. “I know, but-”

He looks at her over his shoulder, and he looks exhausted, “Don’t.” She’d heard him yell, she’d heard him swear, but she thinks that single, firm word is the harshest she’s ever heard him. His voice is barely above a whisper, as he adds, “Our lives are not our own.”

He turns, refusing to meet her eyes, and walks briskly past her. She listens as he descends the stone steps, and she releases a shaky breath she’d been holding. She focuses on that, breathing, and she tries to make herself angry. First, at him: she goes through that old list of faults she’d made when she didn’t know him. Then, she tries to be mad at herself, for not being serious enough, or for moving too fast, or for moving too slow. She can't, no matter how hard she tries, she just feels empty and tired.

She sleeps that night. Not well, but deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, partially because that suits the subject matter, and partially because, even though it'll take me a few more days to finish, the next chapter's going to be on the longer side. Also wanted to thank everyone who looked at the story, and everyone who left kudos!


	6. Goodnights and Good Knights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall's POV

Coward. The word echoes in his head, as he passes her and heads briskly down the stairs. He should have looked her in the eyes, and he shouldn’t have sounded so weak. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hopes that he’ll hear her footsteps follow, but he’s glad when they don’t. He’d have to turn her down again, push her away.

It had been foolish to entertain the crush in the first place. She was a skilled actor, able to hide much of what was going on behind those big brown eyes, but he was better practiced. The thought of comparing her to himself makes him chuckle bitterly, as he crosses the lower yard to the stables. She seemed to be hiding her feelings, like any good leader she was trying her hardest not to allow her fear to affect those who followed her. He respected her for that, immensely.

The stable is completely dark, and aside from the faint sounds of horses, it is silent. He doesn’t need light, and he sits on the stairs to pull off his boots. Away from everyone’s eyes, he lets himself sag. He had hoped that her reluctance to talk to him had meant that she had realized they couldn’t be together before he had to say something.

He had thought he was going up there to reassure her that that was best, and that he had no hard feelings. He lays back on the stairs, the discomfort friendly now.

He really had it all wrong, the avoiding him thing. Haven had hurt her, more than she was letting on, and it had hurt to see someone that reminded her- reminded her of what? He wonders if he reminded her of the many people in mourning, or, and at this thought he closes his eyes with a weary sigh, was she reminded of those happy little moments they had shared together?

Now he had hurt her too, he thought, as he stood to climb the stairs. He remembers what he thought, when he first saw her, across the lake. He had been prepared to fight, but hadn’t wanted to scare off his conscripts- not when a harsh breeze sent one of them running by the hour. Who wouldn’t prepare to fight when they saw a Qunari mage, standing at least a foot taller than him, advancing?

He feels bad, and a little silly about it, but is reminded that she had said practically the same thing about him, that night. The night they had kissed. He lays down, still in his clothes from the day, and tries not to think about the ways in which she had touched him. Not only the kiss, but her hand on his cheek, her hand on his shoulder, and-

He didn’t want to let his mind go there, because, even if she didn’t, he knew how difficult it would be to let her go, and this wouldn’t help. He turns to his side, which is a mistake. His favorite memory, one that never failed to make him at least a little hard, is instantly summoned.

The memory of waking up and finding her curled around him, her front flush with his back, and her hips applying light pressure on his. Her strength and her size make him feel small sometimes. He couldn’t put into words why this embarrassing little thought turned him on: did he like the idea of proving his strength to her, or of seeing her strength, or a little of both?

He palms his clothed cock, telling himself that he’s just adjusting himself, before he pulls his hand away with a sigh. That memory’s been ruined, he realizes: he can’t let himself think about her too much, in those ways, or it would be more difficult to let her go.

Blackwall does not sleep well, and he spends most of the night tossing and turning.

....

It’s been a few weeks, and the relationship between him and the Inquisitor has returned to one on the business side of friendly. She doesn’t avoid him, or clip her sentences short, but she never hangs around longer than she needs to.

He hates it. He’s not so selfish as to say that to the Inquisitor, because he knows this is part of moving on. If he really wants to put a stop to their… flirtation, he can’t be sulking around because she’s listened.

He brings his attention back to the project on the table, a wooden griffin. This, at least, is simple and uncomplicated, and the smell of the wood is comforting. As he chisels, he hears footsteps approach, and he doesn’t even have to turn towards them to know who they belong to.

“Warden Blackwall,” she’s taken to using the full title, especially since he’s made it a point to call her the Inquisitor, and he turns to her. She’s dressed simply, in a royal blue that compliments the deep grey of her skin. She’s taken to wearing silver horn caps, especially when she has to meet with the more skittish dignitaries, and- “What are you working on?” She tilts her head, clearly wondering where his attention has gone.

He chides himself for staring, “Inquisitor! This is just something to keep me busy.”

“I didn’t know you were so skilled at woodworking,” her voice is earnest, a little of her mask slips, and she comes to stand next to him, looking over his work. She’s not even paying attention to him, but her closeness is a lot, and he takes a step back.

His mind searches for something else to say, “I’m glad to be here, you know?” She straightens, the project on the table forgotten, and her face unreadable. He looks around, “This- the inquisition- is important, it’s good to be doing this work.”

“I appreciate having your aid Warden Blackwall,” he has to admit it, she’s gotten even better at closing herself off and saying what is diplomatically correct, and he shifts his stance, wondering if that’s partly his fault.

He swallows, “It’s not just the work.” He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he steps closer to the fire, turning his back to her again. “Someone once told me that you are who you follow, I didn’t really understand what he meant until I was older.”

He can feel her come to stand next to him, and out of the corner of his eye all he can see is her crossed arms. She asks, “Who was he?”

  
“A chevalier, a truly honorable man,” like he wished he could be. “I was young when I met him, and stupider.” She hums, listening, encouraging him to continue, “We were competitors at the Grand Tourney and he helped me to win the melee.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He didn’t lose anything by it, and I had stood to gain considerably,” he hangs his head slightly, “I didn’t even thank him. I was barely more than a kid, drunk on my victory. He had offered to be my mentor, after, but I turned him down.”

“It’s tough to imagine you like that, young and rash,” she says, and he glances up at her. It’s a mistake: the firelight dances across her features, highlighting a little smile she’s giving him and the warmth in her eyes.

He looks away again, swallowing. “My life would've been very different, if I’d followed him. I regret that,” he hates himself for a lot of reasons, but so much would not have come to pass, if he’d followed that man, then.

“Different isn’t always better,” she’s allowed her tone to become soft, and he’s worried he’s given away a little too much.

He forces himself to turn to her and look her in the eyes. “No, no it doesn’t- I think, now, I might have made the right decision.”

  
“Oh?”

He decides then, at that soft sound and her warm brown eyes, that he can’t push her away like he should. He knows what he’s selfish, but he still says, “I might never have met you if I went with him.”

She doesn’t know what to say, surprise clear on her face, and he silently urges her to turn around and walk away. Instead she bends slightly, bringing her face far closer to his, and studies him. She keeps her voice even, “I thought you didn’t-”

He cuts her off, “It’s not that-” Maker, he’s fucked this up from every direction. “I’m sorry for pushing you away.” He glances at her lips, and tries not to think about kissing her.

He almost jumps when her hand comes to rest on his cheek, like he expected a slap, but instead her thumb, calloused from where she holds her staff, gently brushes against his cheek. Her voice is low, gentle like she’s speaking to an injured animal, and it makes him feel even worse, because of how clearly he can tell that she cares for him. She says, “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? You had reason?”

He can feel anger in his chest, “You deserve an explanation,” she nods, stepping back and dropping her hand. “I know we’re returning to the Storm Coast shortly- and- and- I can tell you there.”

She nods, “Okay Blackwall,” she pauses, thinking, “I had come to tell you that it had been decided that we’d be leaving a week early for the Storm Coast, if that’s alright.”

It gave him less time to overthink telling her and ending any chance that she could ever love him, so he was almost grateful. “That’s fine.” She turns to leave, and then casts a little wave over her shoulder. He feels his heart flutter like a child, and knows that this will be hard.

He can’t let her love someone like him, and it’s as though the weight of his guilt drags him down onto his chair. He knows how she’ll react; she’ll ask him to leave the inquisition, hate will replace the sweetness in her eyes, and her jaw will tense up with pain, pain he caused. Still, it’s responsible, and honorable, and a real test of the man he hopes he can be.

It still feels terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying something a little different. Most of the story will be in Herah's point of view, but writing a little from Blackwall's point of view felt good, like stretching. I'd really like to know if anyone has an comments on pacing- I'm not quite sure if I'm going to slow or too fast. I'm also working on making my writing less verbose and flowery, so I hope that's an improvement.


	7. Rain and (Re)kindling

It’s been a hard week: Herah, Bull, Blackwall, and Dorian have been at work securing the Storm Coast. They’ve checked in with the Blades of Hisseran, closed every dark spawn tunnel they’ve come across, and tomorrow they’d assault the red templar stronghold at Daerwin’s Mouth. 

All of this, and it hasn’t stopped raining once. Impressively, that’s not what has Herah the most aggravated. No, no matter how exhausted Herah is, she can’t relax, and the reason is sitting next to her. Blackwall still hasn’t said anything about what he needed to explain, specifically in the Storm Coast, and Herah isn’t sure she should ask. She wants to. 

Dorian and Bull sit across from them, and even Dorian’s mustache has fallen a little in the ever present wet. He casts a nervous glance towards the ocean, before returning his attention to the weak fire they’re sitting around. “I can’t say I’ll miss the Storm Coast, even the sound of the ocean makes me a little seasick.”

Bull snorts, glancing down at Dorian, “The motion doesn’t?” Dorian nudges Bull with his knee, smiling. Herah had guessed the two had grown closer, and she smiles: at least some people in the inquisition are having fun. 

Herah decides she wants to have fun, so she leans back on the log, “Oh, ride anything interesting lately Dorian?” 

The pair share a look, and Dorian answers, “Unfortunately, Inquisitor, it’s been far too long.” Bull raises his good eyebrow, and the Tevinter man winks. 

The only one not looking at her is Blackwall, who has been staring at the same spot between his boots for an incredibly long time. “I’m sure plenty of people wonder the same about you Boss,” Bull’s eye flickers briefly at Blackwall, and back to her. 

Dorian elbows him, “If the Herald of Andraste was having any kind of fun I’m sure it’d be all anyone could talk about.” Dorian, at least, doesn’t seem to know about the oddness between Herah and Blackwall, and it seems as though Bull is content to joke around the subject. 

Herah’s not relaxed, but something about having this conversation, and having it in front of Blackwall, gives her a little bit of dull pleasure. If Blackwall was going to chicken out on at least telling her why they couldn’t be together, then she felt a little punishment was in order. She leans forward to stir the pot, both figuratively and literally, “Dorian, while I don’t have an abundance of privacy, I’ve had my fair share of incredible journeys.” 

She watches Blackwall out of the corner of her eye, and is satisfied that, at the very least, he’s listening. He’s shifted his posture, straightening his spine. Dorian leans forward, “With anyone we’d know?”

Blackwall interjects, “I’m sure the lady doesn’t wish to-”

Herah just shakes her head slightly, with a look she hopes is mysterious. “Dorian, telling people about my fun is exactly how they learn.”

Bull knows her game, she can see it in his eyes, “It’d probably be easier to name people who don’t want her at this point.” Dorian, Bull, and Herah laugh, although Herah is laughing mostly at the sudden realization that he’s probably correct. Even if she’s not particularly attractive, the allure of power and a name can be incredibly attractive, in and of itself. 

They all grab their lunch and have a pleasant conversation. They’ll have the rest of the day to relax around camp before moving on tomorrow, so no one’s in a particular hurry. Blackwall’s noticeably quiet, even more so than usual, and as they’re finishing, he leans toward her. “Could I speak with you, in a moment, in private?”

“Of course,” she says a little too quickly. Blackwall stands, sets his bowl aside, and walks off to stand by his tent, staring out at the sea. When Herah looks back, it’s clear that Dorian suspects at least something is going on. She sets her bowl down, and nods toward them. “Enjoy your afternoon gentlemen.” 

They say their goodbyes, and Herah comes to stand next to Blackwall. He doesn’t look at her, and his posture is incredibly tense, back straight and hands held behind his back. She leads the conversation, “Are we finally going to talk? I thought you might have forgotten.” The last part is a lie, but she says it to be kind. 

“No, lady, I didn’t,” he pauses, “I was wondering if you’d take a walk with me? I need to show you something.” He looks up at her, and there’s an intense sadness in his eyes. It almost hurts her to meet them. 

“Should I ask the others to get ready?”

He shakes his head, “No, we’ll be quite close, although perhaps we should alert a scout, if we’re not back soon.” 

“Alright, I’ll let someone know,” she turns to step away, but stops. She wants to touch him, to comfort him without words she couldn’t find, but settles for patting him on the back. 

…

The walk doesn’t take long, but happens in almost complete silence. She lets him lead the way. There’s a slight feeling of deja-vu in standing on top of a hill, on the Storm Coast, with him, and she stays well away from the edge. 

There are several bare skeletons and the remainder of an old battle here, and Blackwall picks something up from among the bodies. His hands are gloved, so she can’t see his knuckles, but she suspects that he’s gripping whatever he has tightly.   
Herah allows him to think, staying quiet and trying not to guess at what’s happening. Then several long moments pass, and he seems lost in thought. For someone she was trying to move on from, his quiet pain affects her deeply. “Blackwall- what happened here?”

Blackwall’s face falls slightly when he looks up at her, and she’s not sure if its because of the question, or because of what he needs to say. His voice is a little rough, “Another Warden and I were ambushed here.” She takes a step forward, unsure of how to help. “He died.”

She moves her head, trying to catch his eyes, but he continues to avoid her gaze. She gives up, and says the only thing she can think of: “I’m sorry.” 

He nods, and says, “It’s our duty.” It’s clear he doesn’t get any comfort from the statement. He holds out what he picked up so she can see, and she takes another step closer. “This is the Warden-Constable’s badge.” 

She leans in to see it: she doesn’t understand quite why they’re here or how this badge explains why they can’t be together, but it’s clear that it’s important to him. She’s met far too many people who are hurt in ways that she cannot repair, but she hopes that, in this case, she can be there for him. “You lost it in the fight?” 

There’s a noticeable pause before he nods, chewing a chapped part of his lip. “This was my life. I had nothing but fighting and dying to look forward to.” 

She can’t quite look at him, a sympathy sits in her chest and threatens to make her throw her arms around him. She says, more to herself than to him, “Sometimes I’m worried that that’s what my life is becoming.” She allows herself to think less about her posture, and she lets the weight of that thought hang on her shoulders. Once again, as close to open as she’s allowed herself, and it’s with this sweet, sad man. 

He notices, putting a hand on her arm, “Herah-” she looks at him, and they stop. He wants to say something, she can tell, but she can see him physically swallow it down. “I need some time to think. Can we talk again, another time?” 

She nods, feeling awful: that she had enjoyed teasing him, earlier, when, whatever it is he hasn’t said is obviously so heavy he’s struggling beneath the weight in it. He moves slowly, like he’s tired beneath it, as they head back to camp. 

…

Back at Skyhold, Herah’s going over some paperwork at her desk, in her room, to exhaust herself enough for sleep. They had gotten back yesterday, and she had considered going to see him, to check on him, but decided against it. This time, she’d let him come to her. She doesn’t know how deal with emotions other than to lock them away, and she definitely didn’t feel qualified to give him advice.

She leans back in the chair and sips whiskey, to help her deal with a headache not entirely brought on by organizing requisition statements. She finds her thoughts slipping to him, her bumbling attempts at romance, her attraction, and whatever he’s hiding. She’s decided that he doesn’t know everything about her either, and so she’ll let him talk in his own time. 

A knock interrupts her. It’s late, outside, and she thinks about feigning sleep. She decides against it quickly: anyone disturbing her at this hour almost certainly has a good reason. 

She tightens the belt on her robe, covering a nightdress, and walks to the door. As she opens it, she sees Blackwall’s back as he’s walking away. she calls after him, quietly, “Blackwall?”

He turns, light embarrassment plain on his face, “I’m sorry, it’s late-'' he notices her clothes, and a touch of red dusts his cheeks, but she’s unsure if that’s truly because of embarrassment. He glances down her body, “I should- maybe we should talk tomorrow.”

She waves him forward, “Come on.” She doesn’t wait for him to argue, doesn’t even close the door behind her, and she’s rewarded as his footsteps follow hers up the stairs. She’s unsure of what to do with herself, having him here in her room has her scrambling to hide how flustered that has her. 

She decides to sit as casually as she can on the edge of her desk, and watches as he crosses the room to stand in front of her. His hair is wet, he’s wearing a clean tunic and pants, and she wonders if he got cleaned up for her. She smiles at the thought, and he looks everywhere except at her or at the bed. 

Even if he doesn’t want to take this any further, she’s reasonably sure he’s attracted to her, which is nice. “So, Blackwall. I’m sure you didn’t come here for a tour-” 

He opens his mouth and closes it again. “You know something?” He pauses, considering, “You’re infuriating, and confusing, and I can’t believe-”

She smiles, crossing her arms under her chest, “You’ll have to forgive me Blackwall, I thought this was going somewhere else. Should I start listing things-”

He shakes his head, blushing slightly and exasperated, “No, not what I meant,” he takes a step closer, “I came here-” he waves his hands in front of him, as though grabbing the words out of the air. It’s cute to see him flustered, and she thinks more about his hair than she does about being called infuriating. “I wanted to thank you, for coming with me.” He ends this with a little nod, more assuring himself of what he wanted to say than her. 

She leans back on the desk to grab her drink, and as she turns back to him she watches his eyes slide up her form. As she takes a sip, she smiles, the warmth in her and in his eyes telling her that he’s not only here to thank her. She waves him closer, “Come here Blackwall.” 

He steps forward, and after meeting her eyes, he steps closer again. He’s smiling slightly and there’s a hunger in his blue eyes, and her mind flashes to grabbing his hand and leading him to her bed. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, her thoughts return to his secret, but having him here, in front of her, drowns them out. 

Instead, she says, “I wish I could have helped you more,” and at his stillness she wonders if she’s said the wrong thing, and that he’ll snap closed again and run away. 

His voice is low, “I had to see you,” and his eyes firmly focus on her lips. She opens her mouth to speak, she isn’t even sure what she was going to say, and she forgets as he places his hands on her hips, cutting her off with a kiss. 

She leans forward to make it easier on the both of them, and as they kiss, one of her hands finds the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his thick hair. It’s soft, he smells primarily of soap, and just as she’s beginning to enjoy the kiss, he pulls back. She sighs at this, and with their hands still on each other, she leans forward and kisses the corner of his mouth, before seeing that something in his mood has changed.

With her arms thrown over his shoulders, he looks so thoroughly guilty that her sternum aches. He won’t meet her eyes, “This is wrong. I shouldn’t be here,” and he shakes his head, anger in his movements. She straightens, allowing her hands to slip to his shoulders to give him space, and smiles. Despite what he’s saying, it feels like he’s allowing her to see more of him.

Her hand moves to cup his cheek, “What’s wrong about this?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t try to step away, and looks up at her from under his brow. “I want this. I want you. I wish I could-” he turns his head, pressing a kiss to her palm, before continuing, “You deserve someone better.”

Her other hand comes to lay on his other cheek, she can’t stop smiling as she holds his face, and he looks a little awed at the touch and attention. She wants to communicate with touch what she can’t with words. 

She decides then that she loves him, at least a little. “Better than someone who cares so much? I know there’s something you’re carrying around Blackwall,” he’s shaking his head and she wonders if he knows how handsome he is, so raw here for her, “but I want you, and someday, in your own time, you can tell me.”

She can feel him tighten his jaw beneath her hands, “I can’t give you a life-”

“We are alive right now, right here Blackwall,” she’s practically whispering now, and she presses her forehead against his, giving him no option to look away. She hopes that more touching will convince him that he’s wanted and that he’s kind, but also that she’s felt very alone and close to death since she fell out of the breach. 

“Say the word, and I’m gone, but I can’t-” he searches for the words, “We’ll regret this-” she cuts him off, kissing him so quickly that their noses knock. 

It’s a tender kiss, and they take it slow, but eventually his arms move to wrap around her waist, and he steps closer. The temperature of the interaction changes, and she lets her arms wrap lazily around his neck. He moves backwards, trying to break the kiss, and she catches his bottom lip between her teeth. Almost as quickly, she lets him go, pressing a little kiss where her teeth had been a moment before. 

Her hand plays with the back of his hair, and he sighs, “I should let you rest-”

“But I’m not tired yet,” she doesn’t know how far she’d like to go, but she is thoroughly enjoying this so far. He groans, low in his throat, before he dips his head to begin kissing her neck. It’s gentle, and he alternates between licking long lines, and kissing where these lines end. She shivers a little as he brushes the skin near her pulse with his teeth. 

For her part, she’s thoroughly enjoying the movement of the muscles in his back beneath her hands. 

He nestles his face into her neck, and she giggles, cringing away from him a little. His smile makes her grow warm all over, and that smile only grows when she says, with faux anger, “Your beard tickled me again!”

“Careful lady, I like that sound so much I might have to do it again,” she starts to say something else, she’s not sure what she would have said, except it would have been vaguely horny, but he steps back, more firmly this time.

At her pout, he laughs deep in his chest, “Herah, maybe this will finally teach you that I am indeed old.” He winks, turning away from her, “Plus, patience is important.” His teasing tone makes her want to tackle him, but instead she follows him to the door. 

Once there, he glances back at her, and she grabs his arm. “Someday, Blackwall, I’m going to show you what tired really means.” His eyebrows raise, and she releases him. He walks away like someone keenly aware they have a hard-on, and that thought is finally enough to help Herah sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who left comments and kudos. I hadn't ever posted before because I was really worried, but having nearly 100 people have eyes on my work and seven willing to say they liked it? That's amazing! I'm not sure if you all can see that I've edited a chapter, but any edits I've done have been because I caught a typo or two that I missed during my editing stage. No great changes will occur.


	8. Dams and Tells

“Everybody’s acting suspicious here,” Herah sits down heavily beside Blackwall, and across the little fire they’d built after taking Caer Bronach. It's good to take a moment out of the rain, even if she feels she could keep going. She was working on realizing that she had to think of the others, and that it wasn’t good to push herself to her ultimate limit all the time. At her companions' reactions to her statement, she realizes she’ll have to elaborate a little more. “The mayor-”

Dorian interrupts, “There’s good reason to be nervous, with undead pouring out of the lake-”

Herah swallows- she loves Dorian like a brother but if people kept interrupting her, just as she was talking things through, she felt like she might throw something- “Yes, but he was more nervous about the lake, the idea of draining it.”

Blackwall leans toward the fire, holding his hands out, and she remembers that not everyone can pull on the fade when they’ve grown cold. Another thing to try to internalize and remember. Her mind drifts to his shoulders, and if he might like magically-warmed hands working the tension from them. 

Cassandra picks up on her line of thought, bringing her back from her distraction, “You’re right, and for someone being offered help with the rift, he was certainly… reluctant.”

Blackwall laughs, “The man was scared out of his skin: of what, I can’t tell you.” Herah finds herself studying the man, how he looks in the firelight: there’s a speckle of grey in his hair, near his temples, and, just before asking, she realizes now would be a poor time to ask exactly how long humans live. 

Dorian nods, “The Wardens too- except, of course, Blackwall,” this earns Dorian a nod from Blackwall, “they didn’t seem entirely sure of their mission either.” 

Herah wants to go, wants to move on and finish out this rift as quickly as she can, but she smooths her hands down the tops of her thighs. “I don’t like it at all. I hope-” she glances around, and quiets her voice so, she hopes, only those she’s talking to can hear it, “I hope Hawke’s contact has some answers for us, on that front.” 

Blackwall stands, with a groan, and Herah stands up too quickly- she knows she looks like she was waiting for someone else to suggest leaving- “I hope so too. Are we ready? Maybe if we can get the lake drained we can deal with the rift before nightfall.” 

Dorian and Cassandra come to stand as well, and Cassandra smiles, a little thinly, “Dealing with it, at night, does not sound like a pleasing prospect.” 

…

She can’t stop herself, the Inquisitor title falls away for a moment as they scare two love birds who had taken refuge in the old tavern that houses the dam controls. It’s not really the thought of two teens coming here to avoid prying eyes, it’s the way they pop up from where they’re sitting and greet her with, “Ser.” 

She lets herself laugh, hard, and places a hand on her chest. “Terribly romantic place you’ve found here.”

The girl starts, “No-”

Her boy flounders, "I- we-"

Herah can't help but smile, a little breathless from her laughter and trying desperately not to start again, at how red the pairs' faces had gotten. It felt so incredibly good to see something so normal, so sweet as two young people trying to have some time by themselves, that Herah suspected her laugh was almost out of pain. "You two be careful heading home- Caer Bronach should be safe, if you need to stop." 

The two bustle out, under Herah and her companions' watchful eye, and she can't stop a smile from spreading across her face as she turns. 

Dorian turns to Blackwall, "I think that's the biggest smile I've ever seen out of her." Blackwall gives a non-committal huff, and Herah tries not to smile even wider, because of course he has.

Herah, in such a sudden good mood, decides to share, "It just feels good," she shakes her head a little, "to see something so normal, so sweet."

Cassandra smiles at this, a real, genuine smile, and it's Herah's turn to be surprised, especially as the stern woman follows up Herah's statement, by adding, "It is quite nice to see."

Herah nods, thinking about commenting on the smile, but decides that perhaps it would be best not to tease Cassandra about it. Dorian has no such compulsion: "My, and I thought the Inquisitor smiling was rare: is the whole inquisition just brimming with secret romantics?" Cassandra scowls at him, but he continues, "Next I’ll see Blackwall swoon-”

Blackwall’s caught the mood, and is the most relaxed Herah’s seen their entire time in Crestwood- not that this trip has been particularly relaxing- but there’s humor in his voice as he interrupts, “I’ll need something to swoon for first.” Dorian laughs, and Blackwall glances slightly at Herah which she rewards with a wink. No one else seems to notice the little, wordless exchange, but Blackwall stands a little straighter, almost puffing up. 

Cassandra’s the first to break, “I suppose we should find the dam controls now.”

“Yes, sorry everyone,” Herah sobers herself, pulling back. They find the wheel quickly, and with the help of everyone, they’re rewarded by a rumble that shakes the dam as water begins flowing. They head outside, and what’s left of Herah’s good mood deflates away. 

“How long do you think this will take to drain enough for us to get down to that rift?” She tries to keep any hint of irritation out of her voice: she hadn’t thought to ask either, but it settles in her lower back. No one, besides herself, is at fault here, so she crosses her arms. It would not be fair for her to take her aggravation out on others, and that’s something she has to tell herself. 

Cassandra looks over the side, “I wouldn’t know, perhaps we should have asked the mayor.” Herah had grown to like the woman, but in that moment she wants to kick her in the shin. 

Blackwall comes to stand beside Herah, as though he senses how she’s feeling, and she lets out a deep breath. He says, “Considering the rate it’s going, it could be a couple hours.”

Herah nods stiffly, “Should we go back to Caer Bronach for the night?”

“We could always stay here, it’d make the trip down there a bit faster?” She’s a little surprised that Dorian would suggest that, but it calms her slightly. Her team is experienced and hard-working, she knows this. 

“If that’d be alright, the fire’s still going, but I doubt there’s much in the way of provisions here, and I doubt it’ll be particularly comfortable,” she tries not to sound too supportive of the idea of staying, but she wants to. 

…

Herah wakes up, stiff and in mild pain from where they’d all slept, on the floor around the fire. Cassandra and Dorian are still asleep, and Herah’s struck by how relaxed their faces are. Especially Cassandra, who Herah associates with the very concept of seriousness. Blackwall’s nowhere to be seen, and, honestly, Herah’s awake enough to want to see what he’s up to. 

She cautiously stands, feeling every point in her body that had contact with the floor, and stretches. She has to bite a groan in half as she rolls her neck, and she stokes the fire slightly, as quiet as she can. It would seem that, wherever he is, Blackwall had the same idea, as it’s higher than if no one had touched it since they fell asleep. 

She checks outside first, reasoning that it would be multi-purpose: she could check the time, the level of the lake, and see if Blackwall was around. The first thing to hit her, as she opens the door, is the stench. It’s almost oppressive, the smell of undead layered with that of suddenly exposed vegetation, and it’s bad. She’s not looking forward to dealing with that throughout the day. 

It’s very early morning, just barely able to be seen through the overcast, and the lake has drained to a level that’ll allow them access to the rift. They should be able to head out after the others wake up, and stretch a little. All of these things are good, but she doesn’t see Blackwall. She supposes he could have gone off to relieve himself, but she still looks around. 

She hears a whistle, from somewhere above her, and she turns back to The Rusted Horn. Up on a platform, sitting with his legs hanging off, is Blackwall. “Good morning, Inqui- Herah,” she smiles when he corrects himself, and she puts her hands on her hips. 

“And what are you doing up there?”

He pats the ledge next to him, “Come up.” She doesn’t stop herself from making a face, the wood seems rickety and it puts her far closer to falling in the water, but she climbs the ladder anyways. 

She’s cautious, and leaves a little space between the two. She doesn’t know how touchy he’ll want to be, but she’s deeply pleased when he scoots closer to her and wraps an arm around her waist. It’s such an easy feeling, and she lets herself lean into him, although she rethinks laying her head on his- the horns make that a difficult prospect. 

“Did you sleep well?” She snorts at the question, and he continues, “You know, even if you had asked, the lake wouldn’t have drained any quicker.” 

“Am I that easy to read?” Her tone is light, but it's a serious question, and she relaxes a little as he shakes his head.

“No, not usually, no…” he pauses, thinking, “...although you do this thing with your nose when you’re mad.”

Her mouth drops open, “What, exactly, do I do with my nose?” She turns to look at him, and their faces are so close. Even though she can see the fatigue in his face, the smile that lights it up makes her want to kiss him, right then and there. 

He surprises her, reaching a hand up and poking her on the bridge, “Right here? It wrinkles,” she’s surprised again, by the breathy little laugh that escapes her, and there’s a mild heat in his eyes. 

“Well, you might be one of the best, but you get little lines right here,” she pokes him in the middle of his forehead, and it’s his turn to laugh, deep in his chest, a sound she can feel as it rumbles through him. 

“I would have thought you’d notice, I always have lines there,” even though he says it in good humor, the lines deepen a little toward the end, and his voice trails off. 

“You know you’re not that old, right?” 

“Old enough,” the man almost pouts, and she restrains a giggle. “You sure you wouldn’t rather-”

She shakes her head, trying to be reassuring, “Don’t play this game, there’s plenty of people with their eyes on you too, I wasn’t hot until I had the title-”

He rocks back a little, making the wood creak, and without thinking she grabs the front of his shirt, which makes him laugh harder, “No!” She raises her eyebrows a little, only kind of searching for a compliment, and he continues, a little flustered now, “I- well- let’s just say it’s not the title that’s attractive, to me.” 

Realistically, she knew, she knew he was attracted to her: it’s tough to kiss a man twice, and have him participate enthusiastically, and still totally believe that he’s not, but it feels good to hear him say it out loud. “You want to know something? I think when you blocked that arrow, that was when I started... “ her cheeks are warm, and she wonders if he can see, so she looks away, “...well, that was certainly attractive.”

He pulls her closer, tucking his face into her neck and whispering in her ear, “Oh, is saving your life what does it?” She opens her mouth to make some smart comment, but it comes out as a little gasp as he takes her earlobe between his teeth. 

“Blackwall,” she’s whispering, and he begins to kiss along her jaw, “Blackwall, if we fall off of this thing while kissing I swear-” she takes a faux-angry tone, but can’t stop a dreamy little smile from drifting to her face, “-I’ll-”

He stops, pulling back only slightly, and the cool morning air combined with his voice in her ear makes her shiver, “Don’t worry, I can carry you-” 

She shifts her body to face him better, and cuts him off, capturing whatever he had started to say with her lips. His hand rests on her ribs, and she’s only aware enough of the situation, kissing on a ledge above a drained lake that smells of shit, that she doesn’t move his hand up to cup her breast. 

“Quite the romantic spot you’ve found,” a voice comes from below them, and two people have never parted more quickly than Herah and Blackwall. Herah turns slowly, to see that Cassandra is standing below, almost at the edge of laughter. 

“Uh- I-” Herah glances back at Blackwall, his eyes are firmly on a spot somewhere on the horizon, staying as far away from meeting the Seeker’s eyes as he can. “H- good morning, Cassandra.”

She’d never thought she’d see the day that such a serious woman was teasing her, but Cassandra smirks, “It certainly seems that way! I’ll go wake up Dorian," before she shakes her head, “You’re lucky I’m the one who woke up first, if it had been Dorian, well, I doubt you would ever hear the end of it.” 

With that, Cassandra is gone as quickly as she had appeared, and Herah turns back to Blackwall, who has settled a little, and is now wearing an easy smile. She grabs his chin, to have him meet her eyes, “We’ll continue this later?”

“Oh, I don’t know-” she squints her eyes at him, “I wouldn’t want to get too tired!” She releases him with a roll of her eyes, before she climbs down. Despite everything that they have to get done today, and how they slept last night, Herah feels more thoroughly awake then she has at any time in recent months. 

She starts to say something, but Dorian and Cassandra exit the tavern as he’s climbing down. Dorian, thankfully, is preoccupied by the smell, which has thankfully faded into the background for Herah, and he bustles past, “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can be out of here.” 

They all follow, and although Herah can feel herself harden back into her role the further they get from The Rusted Horn, there’s warmth in her chest, something she hopes Blackwall feels as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one I struggled to write. I want to set up the relationship more, while at the same time progressing. This one is also a little... gooey sweet, but that was fun, at the very least.


	9. Can I Do Anything?

After their meeting with the Warden, on their last night in Crestwood, Herah lies in her tent. Crestwood had been trying. There was Mayor Gregory, she’d spent nearly every moment between discovering his confession and meeting with Hawke asking herself if she could do something like killing so many innocents. 

Risking her life at Haven hadn’t been even a question for her: Corypheus wanted her, and it was her life for many others. She could reason that out, even if the reality had settled in after that, without the beacon, they’d have had no chance at a future. She can’t decide what she’d do in Gregory’s place, but she also can’t call up the anger she thinks she should feel. Maybe it’s because she knows that, if the inquisition was ever faced with such an alternative, the final decision would be down to her. 

She rolls onto her side, not truly uncomfortable in her body, but very little could be done for the discomfort in her mind. The news that Corypheus was likely controlling the Wardens was devastating, not only because of what it meant, but also because she hadn’t wanted it to be true. The Grey Wardens stood against the Blight, and to find themselves serving it: it sickened her.

One little detail of the whole conversation stuck with her, even if she felt that she should be thinking about more important things, but she reasoned that it is important to know if a member of her inner circle might suddenly betray her. A little voice in the back of her head questions calling him just a member of her inner circle, but she doesn’t know if she can feel for Blackwall and follow this line of thought, so she separates the two.

Blackwall had said he didn’t hear the Calling, and that left her with two possibilities. 

Perhaps he had been lying. Blackwall had certainly been pale and nervous, in his own way, around other Wardens, cagey around the topic of Grey Wardens before. Was this what he wanted to tell her? It didn’t seem like enough, even if she hated the idea of whispers in his head. 

He could also be telling the truth. Could proximity with the anchor have some effect? The question is dismissed: he would have heard the Calling before, if he could. Had he known about the Calling, even if he didn’t hear it? She can’t reason out why he would have kept something like that hidden. 

She sits up, not really thinking, and exits the tent. The night air is cool, but far fresher than it had been, even a day before. Here, further from the breach, she can see more of the stars: she’s reminded of the last time she really let herself look at the stars, and she knows where she’s going. 

Blackwall’s tent is closeby, and she can see a low light burning within. If he is asleep, she’ll be mad that he left something burning, but it gives her hope that she won’t be waking him up. 

She leans close to the tent flaps, speaking as quietly as she thinks he’ll be able to hear, “Blackwall?” She pauses, listening, “Blackwall, can I come in?” 

She here’s rustling, before he meets her at the opening of his tent, he looks exhausted, and seems surprised to see her. “Oh- yes.” She had reasoned with herself that she was going to his tent to question him more, but when she sees how tired and drawn he looks, she almost forgets. 

She follows him in, and they stand for a moment. He glances at her, waving toward the stool, "You sit-"

She shakes her head, and sits on his bedroll with her back to the tent wall. At his look, something unsure, she pats the space next to her. She notices a tinge of pain as he kneels to sit beside her, and while she doubts everything's physical, she can tell he's strained his right knee.

Instead of remarking on it, she holds her arm up, and he slots himself to her side, wrapping his arm around her waist. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, and he leans his head on hers.

They sit like that, for a while, in silence. She listens to his breathing: does it slow, does it calm? She's not sure, but she rests her cheek on top of his head, the curve of one of her horns rasping against the side of the tent, and she's again surprised at how soft his hair is. Sure, neither of them smell the greatest, it's been a long time since either of their last baths, but sitting here, with no armor between them feels so natural, so comfortable. She wonders if it might curl, given the chance. 

She says, more of a whisper, "I wish I knew how to help."

He grows tense in her arms, and although she can't see his face, he shakes his head. his tone is almost angry, but she can't be sure of who that anger is directed at, "You don't- you don't have to-"

He’s on edge, and she can feel how foolish this decision is, tactically, but she lets it go: "I'm sorry," she makes her tone as gentle as she can, "we don't have to talk about it." He doesn't relax, not a fraction, and she tries to change the subject, "Is your knee bothering you?"

"No..." he pauses. Then his hand goes to grip it, fingers digging into the flesh through his pants, "Yes, is it obvious?” He says it with a sigh, like it feels good to share something, and she feels it too.

She lets a laugh happen in her chest, "No, only here." She leaves the 'only for me' in her thoughts. "Is it the muscle, or the joint?"

"You don't need to worry about an old man's aches," he says, and there’s a sorrow in his voice. She knows that if she could see his face right now he’d avoid her eyes. They’re becoming familiar with each other. 

"I might forget you’re old if you don’t keep reminding me," she says it lightly, trying to joke.

She feels him shift in her arms as he answers, his tone entirely serious, “And then-” 

She firmly interrupts him, "Now, joint or muscle?"

He sits there for a minute, she’s reminded of the other time they spent in a tent, and how she had wanted to argue against her best interests. Finally, he says, with an air of defeat: "Joint, all the wet from this week."

"Would you let me try something? Are you wearing smalls?"

He sits up straight, shock very clear, and she feels her cheeks grow warm. "Am I wearing smalls, my Lady?" He has to cover his mouth to muffle his laughter, the shock of the question making him laugh so hard it turns into a cough at the end. She pats his back, even as he says, "I had no idea, is fetid lake water what turns you-" He stops himself, swallowing what he had been about to say.

She playfully whacks him in the middle of the chest with her hand, "Ah, one second you're an old man and the other you're an old goat: no, as much as I’m sure we’d both like to jump each other,” a sound like a growl happens in his chest, something she has to ignore if she wants to get anything done, “It'll be easier for me to try to give your knee some relief without your pants on-" 

He snorts, rocking back into her arm so he can face her, mirth in his tone, "Herah, I couldn't ask you to-"

"Then it's a good thing you didn't, I offered." He shakes his head, and, for a moment, she thinks he'll say no, again. She makes her voice quiet, leaning close, "Crestwood has been rough," she pauses, honestly the entirety of the inquisition has been rough, "and there isn't much I can do-"

"You've done plenty," he leans back, to face her, "for everyone-"

She swallows, the sudden reverence that creeps into his voice is difficult to entertain, especially from him. She doesn’t know when she’s supposed to start feeling like ‘the Inquisitor,’ but as of now she still feels very much like a fraud. “Still, let me do this for you."

She waits for him to say no again, watches as his eyes scan her face, "Well, it's not quite how I imagined you getting me out of my pants-"

She quirks an eyebrow, "Oh, have you imagined that often?" She's rewarded with an embarrassed grunt.

"Okay, well, how do you want me?" He lets out an amused huff, still very much enjoying all of the double entendre. 

She rolls her eyes, and he only grows more amused. There's something about that smirk that flips a switch in her, and, grabbing his shoulders, she shifts their positions rapidly. Herah pushes him back onto his bedroll, kneeling with one leg on either side of one of his. She stays leaning over him, smiling, "Like this Blackwall." She tries to make her tone innocent.

His eyes are wide, a little dazed, but he recovers quickly. There’s hunger in the way his jaw settles, and how his eyes meet hers. "Keep this up and I'll-"

She leans forward, bringing her face close to his, and tries not to react to the friction of her against his thigh. He makes a little sound of pain, grimacing, and she realizes she’s leant her weight against his hurt leg.

She scrambles off him, sitting back on the bedroll, and he pushes himself up on his forearm, shaking his head. He starts, "Leave it to me to-"

"Leave it to me to sit my big ass right-"

"Usually I wouldn't mind," he says, expressing how little he'd mind with a goofy movement in his eyebrows, "I can't say I mind your- uh-" he falters at repeating her.

She shifts, lifting up his legs so his knees are over her lap. He's just kind of staring at her, so she tilts her head, getting an idea.

She reaches forward, and she could swear he's holding his breath. She doesn't look him in the eyes as she lifts his tunic, from where it covers the fasteners at the front of his pants. She undoes the first one, and he grabs her wrist. 

She looks up at him, asking permission, but he shakes his head. His voice is strained, almost imperceptibly higher. "I'll do it,"and she looks away, giving him some privacy, and only glances back as he lifts his hips to pull them down.

Internally, she's a little relieved: he's wearing loose underclothes, and she tries not to stare at the bulge beneath them as she helps him pull his pants down past his knees and over his socks. Not that she doesn't want to look, or that she isn't interested, but she does, really, want to try and focus.

She returns her gaze to his knee, but that doesn't quite quiet the warmth in her gut, his legs are thick, muscular- unsurprisingly, but nicely hairy- she smirks: he's got nice legs.

He breaks her from her thoughts, voice husky, “What are you smiling at?” Herah shakes her head, she can’t quite say the words out loud, and places her hands on either side of his knee, one below and one above. He chuckles, “Maker, now you’re shy-” he’s cut off as she begins applying pressure with one hand- grip, push, release- and alternating this pattern with her other. 

He gasps, a sound that makes her pause, “Did that hurt?”

He shakes his head, “No-” the way he breathes out tells her more about how it felt than he can apparently put into words. She can’t help but smirk- if she got to his back, straddled his waist- “How do you know how to do this?” He lays flat on his back, relaxation flowing through his body, with one arm beneath his head. 

“I haven’t always been the Herald of Andraste,” she uses her shoulders, and tries to focus on easing the muscles beneath her hands rather than the muscles themselves. “I used to do this for my mother- she once nearly had her leg cut off, above the knee, but it healed, even if it was sore when she overworked it.”

“Didn't your father-” he lets out a moan, and stills, but when Herah laughs, he joins her. 

Laughter still hangs in her words as she says, “Yes, my father did, he's the one who taught me, but I have one important advantage- do you mind if I use magic?” 

He adjusts himself, shifting his shoulders and hips, and she doesn’t think the motion in him shows discomfort- there’s something there, about magic, but she saves the thought for another day, “No, I suppose not-”

She concentrates, allowing warmth to come to her hands. When she first came into her magic, she once singed two little handprints into her mother’s leg hair, but she only smiles, deciding that Blackwall doesn’t particularly need to know that, at the moment. 

“Oh,” the sound is low in his throat, and she wonders now if she's previewing sounds he might make in other- only slightly less intimate- situations. It's certain that she won't forget them, anyways. She rolls her neck, and he continues, speaking more to himself : “I’ll have to do something for you next,” the words are tight, clipped at the ends.

She considers reminding him of all he has done, but she just smiles, glancing at him from beneath her eyelashes, “And what would you do?” She doesn’t quite know where it comes from, the breathiness in her voice, and it takes everything within her to continue her kneading and breathing, as her heart stammers along inside her.

She feels deeply silly: she’s not some blushing virgin, she’s had her share of fun. She can’t, or won’t, put words to it, how Blackwall is different. There’s no time, not really, to be thinking so deeply of feelings or feelings for him. 

At the edge of sadness, before it can really settle in, Blackwall sits up, grabs her hands in his. She’s struck by the differences in how their hands are rough, both calloused but in different ways. 

He must have noticed something in her eyes, and she curses herself internally at ruining the moment, “Look at me, Herah.” He looks so guilty, somewhere between heartbreak and tenderness. “I would do anything,” he seems ready to say something, but instead he pulls one of her hands to his lips and presses a kiss against her knuckles. 

She’s almost swept up in the moment, ready to say something tender and foolish, but her eyes glance down at him and she has to close her lips tightly together to hold in a giggle at this very inappropriate time. 

There’s something about such knightly motions from a man who sits with his legs over her lap, in nothing but small clothes and a long tunic. He looks up at her, quickly, and she rushes to assuage him, “I- no- I’m sorry,” she takes one of her hands to cover her mouth, but the giggling laughter starts to spill out around her fingers, “You look-”

He looks down at himself, and a single loud laugh echoes from his chest, cutting through the night. She presses her finger to her lips, but he laughs harder, if not slightly quieter, “I look like a great, big toddler.” 

“Are human toddlers so hairy?” 

That ugly little snort that she’s grown to like, because it suits him so well, is followed by him bending and clawing forward, “Maker, give me my pants.” She hands them to him, and he pulls them on, shaking his head, grumbling, “If I didn’t know you when we weren’t alone I’d say you could turn any serious moment silly.” 

“And if I didn’t know you when we weren’t alone, I’d say you were the most serious man I’d ever met,” an idea appears, “You said you’d like to do something for me, right?”

Blackwall smirks, “I’m not sure I could do you justice right now-”

She shakes her head, “Could we- could we sleep together-” his eyes widen considerably, and she can see the shape of a ‘no’ on his mouth, so she rushes to clear up any confusion in an aghast whisper, “And hurt your knee again?” He grabs his chest, laughing so hard that she has the sudden urge to push him over again, and she continues, softening her tone, “No, like the night after we fell-”

His laughter stops, mercifully, and he lays a hand on her forearm, warmth in his tone, “I’d like that-”

She looks away, asking a question that had been on her mind since they last slept together, alone, “Did you mind, how we woke up? I-” She looks up at the roof of the tent, thinking he might rather wrap her in his arms, or want someone more easily wrapped. 

He turns her chin with a touch of his hand, “You think I’d mind waking up next to you?” Maker, she says in her mind, the words make her gut go funny. 

She leans forward, giving him a slow kiss that’s almost more a smile than a kiss, and lays on her side. She can’t quite read him, as he looks back at her, but it feels very right as he lays back, fitting himself to her. Her arm wraps around his chest and pulls him to close, and she’s rewarded as she can feel the slow movement of his breathing through the contact. It calms her in a way deeply. 

“Your parents, are they-”

She speaks into the hair on the top of his head, “You know just when to ask a question,” he starts to speak, and she cuts him off, “-no, they’re still living, retired and disgustingly in love.” 

“Ah,” he grunts, “Goodnight then- oh-” He turns his head, noticing the candle, and moves to crawl out from her arms.

She pulls him tighter to her chest, "No, I'm not letting you go right now," and, with a snap of her fingers, the ones over his heart, the light is extinguished. "Goodnight."

She wonders who will fall asleep first, as they lay together in the dark. Even though sleep is coming for her rapidly, she feels like she's won as he begins to snore. He really does, air pulling noisily in every few moments, and she thinks of her parents, and their farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another toothache of a chapter, but as I'm writing later ones, this one I enjoyed coming back to so I could post it. I wanted to say thank you for all of your comments! I'm never sure how to respond to compliments, especially on my writing, but I really appreciate them and it makes me want to write more than I have in a long time. Also wanted to apologize, I think there was a weird formatting issue with Chapter 8? I type in a separate doc and then copy-paste, but it seemed like the paragraphs were farther apart than they should be? (Also I should probably stop ending chapters with people falling asleep... oops.)
> 
> Onto Adamant...


	10. Low Tide

With a quick glance back at Stroud, Herah hurls herself through the rift, back to Adamant Fortress. Even as she’s assaulted by the sudden change in scenery, the boiling sun and flurry of noise, she slams the rift shut behind her with a clench of her fist. 

Herah can’t even begin to take a mental stock of her injuries, feeling as though she has been running on pure instinct through the last fight, and now that energy is fading away. Her right eye is stuck shut with a river of semi-congealed blood, she’s pretty sure she has a few broken ribs, and she thinks, from the way her head pounds while being noticeably lighter- most of her left horn is gone.

She’s just standing there, trying to catch her breath and focus her eye. There are many people around her; her team, the Grey Wardens, Hawke, and they are all looking to her, still. Hawke’s the first to speak, “What should we tell them?” It’s like his voice is coming from double the distance, it’s muffled, and Herah doesn’t know why. Hawke came out of the fight with relatively few injuries.

Trying to think straight, Herah pushes in on her injured side, hoping the pain will focus her. She means to joke, but her answer comes out more bitter than she had meant it, “What I say has never stopped their stories before.”

Hawke can only offer a knowing nod as a Warden, in full armor, hurries to the front, “Where is Stroud?” 

She bares her teeth at him in nothing that could be mistaken for a smile, “He’s dead.” There’s so much more she wants to say, she wants to take this Warden by the arms and shake him, screaming, as she wants to do to all Wardens, but she doesn’t. Even if she spat out those two words like venom, she doesn’t continue.

“Then we have no one of any rank,” the Warden says, and Herah wonders if he’s young or if fear does that to a person’s voice. She bites back a barb about how rank did not seem to help them before- the image of slit throats and blood gushing is still hot and fresh in Herah’s mind. The man continues, “What are we to do?”

Herah nods. Of course, she will decide this. Even aware of all the eyes on her, she turns her face to the sky. The least she could be given is a few moments to think, but rage, her only defense from horror, begins to cool. She has to lean her weight on her staff as the few Wardens that have her grace swim to mind: Stroud, who gave his life for them, and her Warden, who stands back with Bull and Dorian, worry plain on his face. 

The only way she can describe her feelings, after anger slips away, is that she is broken-hearted at the Grey Wardens’ foolishness and desperation. The voice of the Nightmare, echoing within her own skull, returns to her to whisper of hard choices and good will brought to bad ends. She staggers, and she can see many people shuffle slightly, as though to catch her. 

“You will aid us, help to fix this-” her voice is so quiet she’s unsure that they hear, but she hopes so, as she is collapsing. Her last thoughts before passing out, on the blood-soaked stone of Adamant, is that she needs to inform Josie of her preferred funeral arrangements. 

…

She doesn’t die. 

Instead she awakes in a private tent, not her own, but from the sounds around her, she is still in the field hospital. A sheet has been pulled up, over her chest, and she’s wearing little save bandages and a large shirt. There is very little light except the glow of lights in other tents. 

It’s night, but it would seem that many are still awake: she can hear the clatter of healers frantically at work and the low chorus of the injured and dying. 

There’s a gentle sound of canvas on canvas that lets Herah know that someone is coming in. A young elf woman, wearing an apron severely bloodied, enters. She doesn’t look up, even as Herah tracks her with her eyes, exhaustion clear in her every movement. 

Herah coughs, unavoidably, and the woman’s eyes snap up to meet hers. Her entire face changes, and it hurts Herah to see the effect she can have on people: the joy, the awe. “You’re awake!” Herah nods at the excited whisper, wondering what the woman’s name is as she comes closer. 

The woman raises a hand to feel Herah’s head, and Herah flinches, unavoidably. If the woman notices, she doesn’t comment on it. “You don’t have a fever, excellent. You’ll be able to take another healing potion soon- and I must inform everyone.” 

The elf takes a step back, and Herah holds up a hand. Instead of asking her to put off the announcement, Herah croaks out, “Water, please.” She doesn’t like how desperate she sounds. 

“Of course, Ser.” 

The woman fills a cup from the pitcher across the room, and hands it to Herah. With a nod of thanks, the woman bustles off, leaving Herah alone again in her tent. She stares into her cup of water: she can hear news spread through camp, even if she can’t hear the words: the general tone of the chatter changes. 

She sips her water and stares at the tent wall, trying to focus on nothing, when Leliana and Cullen enter her tent. Cullen is still in his armor, and the smell of blood and sulfur wafts off him, filling up the tent. 

“Inquisitor, I wished to report that there was a limited number of casualties: when you entered the rift, the archdemon few off,” Cullen is the first to speak, all business, and Herah nods. 

“That is good to hear,” she can hear the flatness in her own voice, but she tries to project saintly calm. It doesn’t seem to work, as Leliana and Cullen share a quick glance that can only be read as concern. She gives them a little smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, feeling very far away from the conversation. “And the members of my party?”

Leliana looks like she wants to say something to Cullen, before she takes a step forward. “All treated for minor injuries,” her tone communicates that these injuries were simply more minor than hers, rather than being of no concern, “Some are waiting outside, to see if you are well enough to meet with them?”

Herah has to focus her eyes between her two advisors, looking past them, “Yes. Thank you. I will meet with them briefly. I will then dress and come find you two-”

Cullen opens his mouth, but Leliana speaks first, “We were about to take a rest ourselves. You should do the same.”

Herah opens her mouth to argue with the obvious lie, but Leliana fixes her with a hard look, so, instead, Herah nods. 

Bull and Dorian enter soon after, and Herah feels a distinct tinge of worry that Blackwall is not there with them, until she is better able to see the two men in front of her, and their injuries. Then her worry turns to them.

Dorian is bandaged up one arm, and she knows when it happened. The Nightmare had charged forward, or flashed forward, quicker than any eye could move, while Dorian was cast and had knocked his staff blade up and into Dorian’s own flesh. At first, Bull looks like he might have escaped the Fade with relatively few injuries other than extensive bruising, but as he moves she can see a stiffness in his back and the tip of one long claw mark crest over his shoulder. 

Dorian speaks first, smiling, obviously trying to find something light to say, “Inquisitor-”

“You look like shit Boss.”

Herah cracks her first genuine smile, which grows when Dorian elbows Bull. “He’s right of course, but I wasn’t going to say it.” 

Huffing a small laugh sends pain through her entire body, emanating from her broken ribs, but Herah answers through it, “I had to get pretty for Halamshiral.” 

The three of them laugh together like it could chase the day away, and Herah wants to ask them if it hurts them to laugh as well, in more than just their bodies, but she doesn’t. 

It’s clear Dorian needed the laugh, he’s a little breathless, “Oh, you’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand-”

“Is that what these Orlaisians do?”

Herah shakes her head, wondering how much of their ease is a display, and reminds herself in that little motion of her mostly missing horn. She smirks, “I don’t know, I think I could use a few more facial scars first.” When they laugh, she can hear it, they laugh like scared people. 

This time she can’t stop herself from wincing, and the pair notice. Dorian says, “We should let you rest-”

Bull nods, and the two head toward the tent entrance. Herah breaks, finally asking the question, “Is Blackwall alright?”

Bull and Dorian share a look, and Bull gives her a knowing smile, “Better than you. He said he’d be over in a bit.” 

“Thank you, good to know,” she knows she doesn’t sound half as unaffected as she hopes, but they leave, and she is alone again. Sipping her water with shaking hands, she tries to prepare herself to see him. Should she be jokey, or serious? She knew who she had to be around everyone else, but she wasn’t sure if she needed to be that for him too. 

Shame at being affected by the events of the day sits in her throat, and she wonders if she could somehow stop him from visiting. Herah had promised herself she wouldn’t avoid him when things got difficult, but that was between difficult times. Maybe- maybe if she pretends to be asleep then he’ll come in, and she can see that he’s okay without having to talk to him until she has a little more distance?  
“Inquisitor?” Blackwall calls from the entrance.

“Come in,” she replies, and he does. Even in the low light she can see that his face is mottled with bruising, mostly in the places where his helmet was, and he moves slowly, clearly sore. She smiles, even though she knows it doesn’t reach her eyes, “How are you?”

He comes to stand beside her bed, and answers, “I’m fine,” seemingly exasperated that he is even being considered. “Herah, how are you?” His forehead is deeply creased with worry, and she feels like apologizing to him, even if she’s not sure what exactly she’d apologize for. 

“I’m great,” she lies, reaching a hand for his, which he takes. Out of his armor it’s always been clear that he’s muscular, rather than chubby, but he looks smaller in the dark and with worry hanging onto his every feature. He shakes his head as she continues, “A little rough around the edges,” the hand not in his rests on her stomach to stop it from fidgeting, “Were you badly injured?”

He stands a little straighter, and she can see him grow angry. She wishes she could be angry, now, it had felt much better than whatever she was feeling at the moment. Herah’s almost proud of her performance, and he answers, “No, Inquisitor, I wasn’t.” The title is a clear message: he’s hurt by how light her tone is. 

She can’t make her voice any more serious, out of fear that once she begins she won’t be able to stop, “I’m glad to hear it.” Sickeningly, she thinks it’s becoming easier to trap her emotions behind a wall, or that it is, at least, becoming her favorite coping mechanism. She grips his hand, speaking softly, “I really am okay.”

“Are you, really?” The question, from him, isn’t a serious one. He’s seen through her again, that’s as clear as day in that angry little whisper of his. 

She truly meets his eyes, deep purples and sickly greens wreath them, and begins, “I can’t-”

“You can’t, Inquisitor?” She swallows, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest, as his other hand joins in holding hers. He stares at her hand, in between his, thinking, “You almost died.” His tone is softer than before. 

She has to take a deep breath in through her nose, and shakes her head, even though he’s right. “Are you- why-” she can’t figure out what she wants to ask, so she settles on the easiest question, “why are you calling me that?” 

He raises her hand to his lips, before continuing, “Because you’re trying to protect me, or make it less serious or…” she watches as his chest rises and falls, “I know why you can’t show everyone, but I can see it- how hurt you are right now, and, and you’re trying to shut me out-” When he finally meets her eyes, he cuts himself off. 

She gives him a sad little smile, “I learned it from the best.” It’s horrible to see the way his face falls, but before she can try to take it back, he nods.   
He leans over, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, and she wraps her arms around his waist. The motion makes her ribs electric with pain, but she bites her lip so he doesn’t end the embrace. It’s like they can’t say what they need to, but she tries to share as much as she can through the embrace. 

Blackwall whispers in her ear, “I’m sorry, I know. I was just trying to… Andraste’s ti- I’m bad at this.” 

She breathes, a ghost of a laugh, “We both are.”

“You’re too good for me, don’t… don’t start taking after me,” he pulls her closer, and she yelps. Instantly his arms are gone, he practically jumps back, but she catches a hold of his hand before he can go too far. “Now I’ve hurt you, I’m sorry-”

She shakes her head, even though, technically, he did. “Don’t be, you don’t have to apologize.” He looks away from her, not believing it, but she’s glad when he sits on her bedside. She runs a thumb over the back of his hand, marvelling at how well they fit together. It’s soothing, and for a second she lets herself forget about everything except his hand in hers. 

They sit like that for a long time, hand in hand, before she whispers, “I thought we were dead, that whole time.” Her voice cracks, but when he nods, she finds herself able to continue: “I thought that we were all dead and that I… that I had to stay okay for everyone, that way they didn’t have to realize too soon.” 

He shifts his body, to face her better, and scans her face with his eyes. She hates to see how tired he is, and wonders if his cheeks have always had that gaunt to them. “You fought just as hard-”

She leans forward, ignoring the pain, “We needed something, anything, to work for-” she doesn’t finish her sentence, just thinks the last part: before they really died. 

His other hand reaches forward, and swipes something off her cheek. She hadn’t realized until that moment how wet her eyes had grown, but she wipes her face with her forearm. He doesn’t remark on the tear, and she’s glad, because it feels like she’d be betraying everything if she allowed herself to really cry. 

Now she has to watch as he tries to close himself up, his jaw tenses, like he’s in pain, and she wonders if that’s what he sees her doing. “You’re so much stronger than you think,” he says, smiling tightly, and she snorts. “You don’t have to believe me, but I’m here, okay?”

“Okay,” she says. After several more moments, he stands, making to let go of her hand, but she doesn’t let him. She tries not to sound as desperate as she suddenly feels, “Where are you going?”

“It’s probably time for me to get back to my tent… you don’t want,” he’s thinking something and she wishes she could crawl inside his head, “It wouldn’t be good if we were, if you were seen with-”

“Fuck off,” she says, and for the first time tonight, he cracks a smile. “I’ll put out a decree if you want-”

“No,” he seems a little nervous at the prospect, “you need to rest, here, where the healers can find you.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get to sleep,” before sighing, deciding not to argue with this line of thought. “Kiss me?”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. She wants to be mad at him, for wanting her to share her pain, but for refusing her his, but that’s forgotten when he answers. There’s a little incredulity in it, “Of course.” 

He leans forward, more careful of her, and meets her lips. The kiss is slow, achingly gentle, but she needs more, like she needs to be reminded that today is over. She reaches up to rest a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him down, closer to her, and tries to say this without words. Just as her tongue makes its way past his lips, to trail along the roof of his mouth, he pulls away. 

Although it’s dark, she commits to memory the red in his face and the way he breathes. There’s a dizziness to him that makes her smirk. He takes a firm step back, “Now you need to rest, but when we’re all healed up, I’m going to-”

“Oh, I’m going to do something unspeakable to you, Blackwall,” she drops her voice as she says it, and something so normal as flirting feels insane and beautiful now. 

He laughs, half in shock. “Good thing it’s unspeakable,” he clears his throat, looking up at the tent roof. “I could cut gems-” He cuts himself off, shifting his weight between his feet. He tries to sound completely serious, but it almost doesn’t work, as he changes the conversation. “You need to rest Herah.”

She lets his fingers slip through hers, finally, and says, “You too.” He nods, like a true goodbye is too much, and begins to walk toward the entrance of the tent. She’s surprised when he stops, just standing there, and she thinks about calling him back. 

There’s no need, he turns around, shaking his head, “I’m not going to be able to sleep.”

“Me neither,” she answers, trying not to sound too overjoyed at having him for a while longer. As she breathes out, and he walks back over: she recognizes that the relief she feels is because, secretly, she was worried he’d be gone, somehow, that she’d lose him in the night. 

She makes room for him on the bed, hissing through her teeth, and she can see, out of the corner of her eye, that he wants to stop her. His hands are raised, a little from his sides, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reclines with her, shoulder to shoulder, and lays his hands on his stomach. 

“Have you ever been fishing?” He asks, finally, and, although she had no idea what he’d say, she didn’t expect that. 

Something between a laugh and a hiccup happens in her chest, “No, I haven’t.” 

“I want to take you fishing someday,” she watches his profile as he says this, and she realizes, all at once, that this is him opening up- just a little- but it makes her warm inside. 

“I’d like that, although we’d probably have to fish off shore,” he hums at this, a question in the sound, and she tells him something that absolutely no one knows, “I can’t swim.”

Now he rolls to lay on his side, so he can face her, “You can’t swim?” Years melt off of him in his mirth, and she nods. 

“Nope, just never really had a good chance to learn,” she feels a real smile on her face, to match his. He lays an arm over her middle, and she wishes she could move hers so he could get closer, so he could lay his head on her chest. Instead she rests her hand on top of his arm. “Tell me about fishing?” 

He does. He talks at length about the kind of fish caught in fresh water versus salt, and what kind of bait is used, and how to make a lure with something shiny. It’s so good to have him talk at length, about anything, and that’s how she falls asleep, listening to him talk.

…

A petite cough wakes Herah, and she opens her eyes to see another healer, a human woman this time, standing at the end of the bed, smiling slightly. Blackwall must have fallen asleep at some time in the night, his arm is still draped over her middle. 

Herah smiles back at the woman, a little bemused, but unwilling to wake him up if she doesn’t have to. Neither of them comment on the man sleeping in the Herald’s bed, although Herah’s sure that this is just as fine a way for the news to spread as any. 

The woman seems to understand, and she speaks quietly. She doesn’t necessarily need to, a deep snore from Herah’s side almost drowns the woman’s voice out, “I have another healing potion for you.”

Herah nods, and drinks it quickly when the woman hands it to her. “Thank you,” she says, and the healer nods. Even though energy and relief flow through Herah, she wants nothing less than to get out of this bed right now. 

“They look so different when they’re asleep, don’t they?” Herah smiles, because of course he does. He’s not untroubled in his sleep, but his hair is messy and his eyes don’t meet hers filled with worry. The healer twists a ring on her finger. 

“Yes, they do-”

“I’ll let you sleep for a little more, okay?”

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be my longest chapter so far! I rewrote it three separate times too, even though I like angsty ones they can be the toughest for me to get done (I guess I should have seen that choosing to write a Blackwall romance was going to be good practice in angst). I hope you all are enjoying it so far. I really love reading your comments, and thank you so much for the kudos! We're almost at 200 views as well, which feels insane to me. I spent so long not posting anything because I was so worried no one would even look at it. It's really awesome!!!


	11. Three Ways to Tango

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earning that E rating now, also just an incredibly long chapter.

Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, in her perfectly manicured grace, only winces slightly as Herah, yet again, steps on her foot. Herah, in her natural manner, swears, loudly, at herself: “Fuck!” She’s a little embarrassed, and she takes a step away from the Ambassador. 

The entire interaction earns the Inquisitor a giggle from the assembled crowd, and she turns on them. With a heavy sigh, Herah begins, “Please, will someone explain to me why so many of you have decided to watch my dance lesson?

Josephine puts a gentle hand on Herah’s arm, but Dorian, seated on the Inquisitor’s couch next to Varric, is the first to speak. “How could I miss the Herald of Andraste learning to dance?” He leans toward Varric, and in a stage whisper, “You might have to give me some pointers, but I’m going to make a living off this story after-”

“Not if I don’t first: Inquisitor, how do you feel about ‘The Herald’s Heart’ for a title, it should play well to Cassandra’s crowd, but it might be too on the nose,” Varric looks pointedly at the woman mentioned, who stands against the railing, on the other side of Dorian. 

Herah’s able to speak before Cassandra can spit whatever barb she has brewing, “You know, you’ve got an awfully big mouth for someone so throwable.” Varric holds his hands up in mock defeat, but all attention in the room is drawn to Cassandra when she releases a single, loud laugh. 

Blushing slightly, the typically dour woman shrugs, “It is what I have been saying the entire time.” 

“Aching to get your hands on me again Seeker?” Herah covers her mouth, to try to hide the laugh, but it really isn’t effective. Varric knows how to push people’s buttons.

Josephine clears her throat, “I think that now would be an excellent time to stop for the day-”

“Feet getting sore, Ambassador?” Dorian says, sweetly, and Varric snickers. 

Josephine’s voice is somehow patient and condescending, and Herah’s glad it’s not pointed at her: “Not at all. I was simply asked to ascertain what the Inquisitor’s familiarity with Orlaisian dance was prior to the arrival of her tutor, and I believe I can say-”

Herah cuts the polite woman off, putting what she was about to say in far simpler terms: “That I am terrible.”

Cassandra shakes her head, “I think that I might have seen worse,” and while the woman is semi-serious, it earns her a laugh from Varric and Dorian. 

Either Josephine takes it completely seriously, or she spots a moment to steer things back into a serious direction, “As have I. I believe that we should allow the Inquisitor her room back.”

“Oh, if you are all sure? I thought the inner circle might just all move in here,” Herah says, as her friends stand or shift toward leaving, “I think the Chantry would be pleased to find out we all sleep in a single bed-”

Josephine smiles, and says with a gasp, “Do not!”

“Herah, you’re going to have to stop giving me ideas if you don’t want any books about you,” Varric says, and the last they all hear from Cassandra is a sigh, as she leaves. 

Eventually, after no small amount of jokes, mostly to get the Ambassador to smile, everyone has left her room. Herah stretches, going to the balcony. It surprises her, but she realizes that she doesn’t have anything else planned. It is a rare night free of additional meetings or pressing paperwork. The idea’s almost insane, it feels like she’s been running since the second she could get her feet under her.

She gets an idea. She pulls a bottle of whiskey from the desk, then sets it down again. Herah can’t place why she’s nervous, and she fixes her shirt. She wonders if she should dress differently- to see him- but if he isn’t available, she wouldn’t want to have dressed up. Finally, she reaches for a satchel, considering that the Inquisitor carrying a bottle of liquor through Skyhold might not be the best look, and hangs it over her shoulder. 

…

Outside, she passes the sparring ring, and she almost doesn’t stop- until she sees someone she recognizes. One of the men is Krem, and Herah stops for a moment, to watch. The other man is blonde and seems to be a member of the inquisition’s forces.

She makes a mental note to compliment Cullen again. The Commander is having a rough time, and Herah honestly has no idea how to comfort someone in his situation, but she does appreciate how well he’s done at training the inquisition’s forces. Krem’s still great, and the two men spar. 

Herah’s only kind of able to hide how she jumps when a voice comes from behind her, “You ever get in the ring Boss?”

She glances back as Bull comes to stand beside her and says, “No, I’d be useless without magic-” she follows this with a little laugh, but something in his face reminds her that that’s not something good nor something she should let loose so effortlessly. She nods to the ring, “He’s good.”

There’s a hint of pride in Bull’s voice, “He is, but I think your man is going to beat him.” Herah tilts her head in confusion, so Bull continues, “Your guy’s a leftie, and Krem’s tried to feint on his right a couple of times- Leftie’s got it figured out-” 

The two of them turn their attention back to the match, and, sure enough, Krem feints and has his sword knocked out of his hand as Leftie brings his shield down. The pair in the ring nod to each other, and as Krem’s leaving, he notices Bull and Herah. He’s absolutely soaked in sweat, and his hair has lost any hint of volume. “Figures you two would watch the one I lost.”

Herah grins, “If it makes you feel better, you’d definitely kick my ass-”

Krem goes to shake his head, politely, even if he smiles, and Bull says, “I’d pay to see that-”

Herah tries to elbow the larger man, who dodges it, and she turns to him, “I’m sure you’ve seen me get my ass kicked before Bull.”

Bull opens his mouth, but Krem starts, jokingly, “Maybe you should spar her Chief-”

The rest of whatever Krem was saying is drowned out by Herah’s laughter. She straightens, as she attracts several glances in her direction, before she explains, “I think the sight of me trying to spar with The Iron Bull might end up destroying the Inquisition quicker than anything Corypheus has tried.” This earns her a laugh from the two men, and it feels good to share an easy laugh with others. She’s not discounting herself- she’s physically strong and good at her magic, but she lacks the rhythm or experience for either dancing or sword fighting.

“You’re alright with that staff, even with the end fire doesn’t come out,” Bull says, after a moment. 

“Yeah, but I don’t have training with much else-”

Krem looks curious, “You were a merc before this though, right?”

“Oh, people definitely tried, but it doesn’t come to me naturally- plus I always forget I’ve got a shield,” this makes Bull snicker, and Krem shoots him a look. Off-hand she says, not really thinking it through, “Although around camp I was almost okay at wrestling.”

Krem’s eyes go wide, but Bull takes this in stride, “Boss, I’d not only pay to see that, I’d pay to be part of it.” Herah shakes her head with a smile, she’d filled her Inquisition up with flirts and was learning to deal with it. 

“You wrestle?” Krem’s still stuck on that point.

“I haven’t for a while, not really useful in a fight- and it was just something for camp to keep busy,” she shrugs, “you might think the horns would make grappling tough though-”

Bull interjects, “Only if you don’t want to kill the other guy.” Herah nods as Bull turns to look more fully at her, “We’ve got to find you somebody to wrestle.” Herah tries to interrupt him, but he continues, “It’d be great for morale... maybe Blackwall would be up for it.” Bull smirks for good measure, and Herah squints her eyes at him. 

Krem takes the suggestion seriously, “He’d be a good match for her.” Bull’s still giving Herah a look that makes her want to hit him, as Krem continues, “He’s shorter than you, but he’s thick- it’d be a good match for someone tall and-” Krem considers what he’s going to say, and stops speaking. 

Herah smirks as a noticeable pause follows, “Well, I’m on my way to talk to him, and I’ll be sure to mention to him that you two are so interested in getting him to wrestle.” Bull’s still smiling, and Krem nods a goodbye as Herah turns to go. 

…

She’s in such an incredible mood, and it just continues when she sees Blackwall, in the lower yard, chopping wood. It feels like a really natural activity for him, and she leans on the wooden post, by the well, watching him work. 

Finally, someone has to ruin the moment. From behind her, someone says something about the Herald too loudly, and Blackwall glances over his shoulder. At her grin, he tries to pull his face into a smile, but there’s clearly something serious on his mind. 

She tilts her head, “Are you alright Blackwall?”

He goes back to work, grabbing another log and setting it in place. “What happened at Adamant- I was told Adamant was the order, the lone guardian. Warden-Commander Clarel wanted to be that.” He swings the axe, splitting the log.

Herah folds her arms over her chest, as he grabs another log. “Yes, she did,” Herah’s trying to hold onto her mood from earlier, but she’s glad he’s talking, and she supposes that this is a different kind of closeness. It’s still tough for her to have sympathy for Clarel, but she listens because she cares about Blackwall.

“They all wanted that. The Wardens died for us, thinking they could save us,” he continues working his way through the small pile of logs, almost as though chopping wood is allowing him to focus, so she decides not to disturb him. It does feel good though, when he glances back at her, searching her face for understanding. She nods, and he continues, “Corypheus twisted them, he took that want to protect and- he made them do the opposite.” She’s surprised at the pain in his voice. 

Put like that, the plight of the Wardens becomes more real to her, “One of my greatest fears.”

As she’s finishing her sentence, he slices another log, and she thinks for a moment that he might not have heard her. He’s still faced away from Herah, breathing for a moment, before he speaks, “To die, thinking that what you were doing was the right thing?”

“To want to do good, and have it be wrong.”

Finally, he sets down his axe, and takes a few steps towards her. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his brow, visible in the fading light, and his hair is out of place- hanging around his ears. He’s handsome, even when he’s sad. Maybe someone else would have looked at the man and have seen seriousness, or determination, but all she can see is the sadness. “The Wardens are a promise, and to be forced to break that promise, while believing you were living up to it…” he shakes his head with a sigh, and she wants to wrap him in her arms. 

He takes a deep breath, as she says, “That’s why I let them stay- I… I can’t even put into words how mad I was, at first, but I guess that I would have wanted a chance to fix things.” 

He almost says something, she can see it in the shape of his lips, but he changes his mind, “I know you don’t want to be called admirable, but…”

“If you start with that I’m going to run-”

“Would you make me catch you Herah?” Even if there’s still a trace of his earlier sadness, he’s teasing, and she feels a little warm.

“There has been some question of you and I publicly wrestling-”

“There’s been what?” His eyes are wide, but he smiles as she pulls the bottle from her bag. “Oh- did you come here to wrestle?”

She makes her voice innocent, “Are you sure you’d be up for it?

He wraps an arm around her waist, “Get in the barn.”

As they walk a terrible, awful thought swims to the surface of her mind, and she lets it free, just as they enter. “Glad I could find a… stable relationship,” she starts laughing even before he can react, and the man practically gags. 

“If you weren’t-" he stops himself, shaking his head, "I should honestly turn around and walk out of this barn-” she starts laughing again, and he looks just slightly bemused. 

She moves to go by the fire, but he stops her, pulling her close to his side with the hand on her waist. "Herah, why don't we go upstairs?"

She smirks down at him, but nods without saying anything. They climb the stairs, made only slightly more difficult by their arms around each other, and she looks around once they reach the top. She stops him, "Do you not have a bed?"

It's dark, but she can see his smirk, tugging at the corner of his moustache, "Ah, I apologize, I should have realized you'd grow soft-"

She barks out a laugh, "I could get you better quarters- or a bed at least-"

He leads her around the open floor, to several hay bales laid flat with various hides covering it, "As you can see, I have a perfectly fine bed." He sits on the edge, holding his hands out as though he is showing her something grand.

She smiles, and sits, back against the wall and legs laid out across the bed, with her boots over the edge. "You know what, this is nice." The window next to her provides some light and a gentle breeze, and the man she is falling for sits at the edge of his bed, eyes catching just enough for her to see them turned to her. 

He turns to undo his boots, kicking them off once he's got them most of the way, and then looks back at her. "I can help you with yours?" The way he asks the question, she's not sure if he's asking her if she wants to take her boots off, or if she wants him to take her boots off, or if, underneath all that, she wants to stay.

She bends forward, "I can do it," but he waves her off, taking one of her feet in his lap and beginning to undo the many clasps. 

She starts to argue, but he cuts her off, "So, tell me how us wrestling came up?"

She starts telling him, her cheeks warm, as he tugs off her boot and moves to the next. "So, yeah, I'm pretty sure Bull knows- about us, although Krem didn't seem to catch on-"

Even as he finishes taking her boots off, he leaves her feet in his lap, "Well, Cassandra knows too-"

Herah laughs, a little too loud, and it echoed through the little yard outside the window. "Yes, I'd say catching two people with their tongues in each other is a good clue."

He laughs too, his hand on her lower leg, just resting. "So, did I see you've got West Hill Brandy in your bag?"

She nods, pulling it from her side, and handing it to him. He turns the bottle over in his hands, and she smiles, as he uncaps it and takes a quick drink. She likes the way he sighs as he hands the bottle back to her, and she definitely likes his eyes on her as she takes her own sip of the black current flavored brandy.

She caps it, and sets it aside, careful not to let it slip too far between hay bales, and she feels as he begins drawing small circles on her calf with one of his fingers. "So, you helped me get comfortable, let me do something for you…" he doesn't stop her as she slips her legs from his lap and kneels behind him.

"What are you-"

She smooths her hands over his shoulders, and down his arms a little. "Why don't we take this off?" He's still wearing his heavy padded coat, and when he doesn't stop her, she wraps her arms around him, undoing the ties at his neck.

"Trying to undress me Lady Adaar?" He's smiling, even if she can't see it, she can hear it in his voice. 

She wants to have the same dumbing effect on him as he has on her, so she leans her mouth close to his ear- letting her lips brush the shell as she whispers, "And what if I was?"

She's rewarded by a straightening of his spine, and the slightest shiver she might have not felt, if her upper body wasn't draped across his back. Her hands reach the belt, and she realizes how closely he's been watching her hands. His voice is gruff, "I'd just have to let you." 

The belt comes off, and the coat parts. Impulsively, she presses a kiss to his neck, just below his ear, before she sits back and helps him shrug the coat off. She folds it over her arm, setting it aside, and only realizes he's turned to face her when she looks back.

She watches as he moves himself back, to lean on the hay bales, and can see him watching her as she comes to sit next to him. The moon has begun to ride, and it's light drifts through the window and settles in their laps. 

She thinks they'll sit there, tense and attracted forever, until he places a hand on her thigh. "Herah- I… maybe we shouldn't." 

Even though he sighs heavily, his hand remains, and she wonders if he knows how distracting the warmth of that hand is there. She leans against him, "We can stop, but I'm telling you- you're the only one out of the two of us who would want that."

His hand begins to knead at her thigh slightly, just a gentle squeeze and release, and she considers parting her legs. She doesn't, not yet. He watches his hand down her thigh, "Maybe we should take it slow-"

She leans down, to speak in his ear, "You're welcome to take me slowly Blackwall."

She doesn't know if the frustration she hears in his groan is because of the joke or because he's holding himself back, but his hand moves higher, still on her thigh but more distractingly so. He says through his teeth, "Maybe I should give you something to tide you over, if you're so impatient."

Her hand finds his jaw, tilting it up towards her, and even though she's speaking to him, her eyes never once leave his mouth. "And what would you give me?"

He smiles ferally, the hardness of his jaw beneath her fingers betraying how badly he wants to break, but he answers, "You're worth taking my time Herah."

Almost as a distraction from the way his palm is rubbing so close to where she'd like him, but also as payback for how maddening he's being, she places a hand of her own on his thigh- also too far away to do much more than remind him of her. She tilts her head innocently, but her smile is anything but, "So take it."

Instead, he moves to lift her leg slightly, and she cooperates, as he drapes her leg over his. She finds herself a little breathless at how careful and controlled he's being even when she wants to jump him. She decides she'll save the jumping for another day. That doesn't stop her from letting out a breathy little sigh that she can see makes Blackwall smile.

"You'll be patient, right?" He says, and she doesn't want to be when he moves his hand away from her thigh. She just nods, and his hand finds its place beneath her breast, slowly rubbing back and forth.

She grabs a fistful of his shirt, turning towards him slightly, "Blackwall, it's not nice to tease- I want you-"

He laughs at her, eyes dark, and it's like she hears it in her core. "Two things Herah: I am not fucking you tonight-" she growls at him, but all he does is smile, "and I am not nice."

She removes her hand from his shirt, and replaces it on his thigh, now trailing her fingers up and down, she lets her tone be playful, "I don't want to be, but I can be mean too."

He watches her face as he takes her breast in his hand, squeezes slowly, once, and begins rubbing, relying on the palm of his hand to create friction with her shirt. She moves her hand higher on his thigh, and he stops her with a hand on her wrist. "Patience," he chastises, something smug in his voice.

She's feeling decidedly impatient, so she starts to shift her hips so she can quickly throw a leg over and straddle him. She glances at his face, and realizes, by the smile, he's figured out her plan.

Before she can react, or enact her plan, he's done the same to her, swinging a leg over her lap with an air of triumph. Her hands snap up to grab his sides, she pulls him flush with her chest and face to face. She hisses at him through her teeth, "If I hear that word one more time-"

He grabs the back of her head and kisses her, the rest of her sentence erased as she eagerly joins him. She leans forward, tilting him back, but she finds his back far more interesting than pushing him back into the hay- for now. As she runs her hands over his back, feeling the muscles in his shoulders stretch and move beneath his shirt, they tilt their heads- trying to somehow get closer even as their tongues try to live within each other's mouths.

He pulls back as she slips her hands beneath his shirt, and she's glad to see he's breathing heavy and his lips are redder than before. His breath comes out in little clouds, and she remembers they're also keeping each other warm literally. 

Is it her imagination, or is his voice deeper when he says, "No Herah, I think it's my turn to take something off you."

She removes her hands, holding them up, "Oh please Blackwall, we should be fair… after all."

They both watch intently as he begins undoing the many buttons on her shirt, his hands working quickly. "Maker, why do all your clothes have so many buttons and clasps and-"

She laughs, and when that stops him from being able to undo a particularly tough button he makes a face that makes her laugh again. "I think it's specifically to thwart you Blackwall," she quiets slightly at the end, remembering the open window next to her.

"Are you nervous now?" He asks, humor in his voice, as he finishes with the buttons down to her navel.

"The Herald getting fucked in a barn would certainly be one way to let everyone know-"

"I've already told you, I'm not fucking you tonight-" she cuts him off with a disbelieving hum, and he just shakes his head as he helps her to pull her arms out. Almost immediately his arms wrap around her, squeezing her. 

He starts to untie her breast band, and she puts her hands on his shoulders to stop him. "Wouldn't it be my turn now?" Instead of acknowledging her, he sinks his teeth into her shoulder, and her hands shift to pull him closer. 

His hands continue after a moment, as he flattens his tongue over where he just bit. He's in her ear, "My clothes are half as complicated, and I'm wearing half as many- how's that for fair?" Her breast band comes loose, but doesn't fall, pinned between them.

"Now who's talking about patience," she says, in a way that she hopes makes it clear that she doesn't mind. He laughs against her, and she grabs the hem of his shirt, from behind.

He starts to lean back, smiling like he's going to stop her, and she bares her teeth, "Your shirt can come off the hard way or the easy way, Warden." He tilts his head, but raises his arms. She pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it, and has to cover her mouth with how hard she starts to laugh as it slides across the floor and falls to the first floor. 

He clearly saw, "Oh, I thought we were doing this the easy way?" He laughs a little, and the motion drags their chests together. 

She leans back, moving her hands and examining him in the moonlight. He's thickly muscled, with a full chest and stomach of thick, dark hair. She runs her fingers down his chest, and glances up to realize he's doing his own examination of her. "So, what exactly are we going to do, with our clothes off, if not-"

He reaches forward, cupping her breasts in his hands and feeling their weight. She spreads her arms, giving him better access. His thumbs pass over her nipples, and she looks up to see his face, only to realize he's doing the same. He laughs, and she realizes that her mouth is open. "I wouldn't have thought you lacked imagination Herah."

"I-" she thinks she's going to say something she thinks would be very attractive or sensual, but when he leans forward and takes her nipple in his mouth she loses it. She begins to say something else, then he sucks hard, swirling his tongue around it. She's surprised, a breathy little sound, and she curls her fingers in his hair. "Blackwall, please-" she shifts her hips up into his.

As he removes his mouth from her breast, he lets out a little breath, the light chill making her shiver, and he says, "I really can't think of anything else I'd like to be doing." His mouth reattaches, and as she tightens her grip in his hair, he moans just as he takes her nipple between his teeth.

She grabs his shoulders in both of her hands, and he turns his head up to face her, cocksure grin firmly in place, "Okay Blackwall, I think it's my turn." 

She pushes him back onto the hay, with her laying on top of him. She can feel his hardness through his pants, pressing on her stomach. He moves up onto his elbows, looking a little dazed- but very happy about it. "What are you-"

She flattens her tongue across his nipple before sucking it into her mouth. She's lost for a moment, the feeling of her mouth on his body, the gentle brush of his chest hair on her cheeks, the muscle beneath her mouth.

He makes an odd, half-choked sound and places a hand on her shoulder, and she stops instantly. She pushes up off him and meets his eyes. He's breathing heavy, and looks a little confused. Herah makes her voice gentle, "Are you alright?"

He is slightly unsettled, but the way he blushes tells her it's not unwelcome, just unexpected, "I- I didn't realize that'd feel good, on me." His voice is strained, and she lifts her eyebrows.

"Do you want me to stop?" The second he shakes his head no- he doesn't want her to stop- her mouth is back on his chest. She focuses on teasing, twisting her tongue around his nipple. Her hand comes up to play with his other, teasing it with the pad of her thumb. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, but by the little noises happening deep in his chest, he's enjoying what she's doing.

Her hand leaves the nipple it's playing with, and reaches between them, to undo his pants. He shifts his hips, trying to roll her again so he's on top, and instead flips her onto the floor. She's breathless again, and the sound she makes as she lands is incredibly loud- the wooden floor cries out under her landing.

He's kneeling beside her, worry and embarrassment hot on his face, but once she can breathe again she laughs so hard he joins her. Neither of them remember they're in one of the least private places they could be until they hear a sound, down in the courtyard. He holds up a finger, and she covers her mouth with her hand. They listen for another minute, and nothing else happens. 

She snickers, looking up at him, "Not so easy to toss around, am I?"

He sits back in the hay bales that make up his bed and puts a hand to his chest, "Herah, you're going to be the death of me."

He holds out a hand to help her up, and she takes it, standing up, "Says the man who almost threw me off a one-story drop-"

He pulls her hand, and catches her waist, laying her on the bed. He's above her, kneeling between her legs, and he smiles, "I don't know what you mean."

She giggles, laying back, as he kisses the space between her breasts, and begins undoing her pants. She raises her hips to help as he pulls them off, catching her small clothes at the same time. Once her pants are off, he stands there for a moment, surveying her on what passes for his bed. 

She can't quite see his face, and she's laying there legs hanging off the side, fully exposed, as moonlight falls across her. After a long moment she smiles up at him, "Everything alright Blackwall?"

He shakes head, kneeling between her parted knees. His tone has shifted completely, to reverence and want, as he runs his hands along the outside of her thighs, "More than alright."

Herah's suddenly feeling a little shy, even with the man she had wanted between her legs finally there, and she laughs in her throat, "With you standing there I started wondering if-"

He wraps his arms under her hips, pulling her closer, and presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, and she can feel him smiling more than she can see it. "If I wanted you, Herah?" His arms, wrapped under her hips, squeeze slightly.

"Yes," she says, simply, even as he begins to track what must be the slowest kisses up her thigh. 

"Then I've done something terribly wrong, my lady," he turns to her other thigh, continuing lower. 

One of his hands moves to lay against her stomach, and the other spreads her for his eyes. Herah watches this all, laying back on her elbows, and she can feel her heart start to race a little faster.

He bites the soft skin of her thigh, so close she shifts her hips toward him, a little breath escaping her. He practically growls, "No, now you really need to be patient, I apparently need to convince you just how badly I want you."

She can hear it in her ears, how funny her breathing has gone, but she manages to say- in a way she hopes will have him as utterly insane in this moment as she feels, "You know Blackwall, I'll have to pay you back, and if you tease too much-"

He swipes his tongue up her slit, purposefully, at that moment, and she's cut off by a small sound of pleasure she realizes, a second after, came from her. He hums low in his throat, "Although, at the state of this, I'd say you want me pretty badly."

Before she can think of any smart or sexy remark to answer him with, he buries his face there: tongue clearly experienced, as he doesn't simply attack her clit, instead trailing around. 

She gasps a little, tightening her thighs around his head, and he hums with his mouth against her. Her breath catches in her throat, and after yet another torturously slow circle with his tongue, he presses his lips there and sucks slightly. Her hips jerk up into him, only restrained by his arms.

She crosses her ankles over his shoulders, trying not to squeeze too hard, as he continues his slow attack. He only moves enough to speak, his breath hot and warm against her, "Next time, your room. I want to make you loud-" 

Her hand comes up to tangle greedily in his hair, and he seems to agree, laughing against her as he gets back to work. His arms move, from firmly wrapped around her hips, and she almost misses it, until both snake up to cup her breasts.

She feels tightness building in her gut, and the twitching of her hips is becoming less controllable, as she practically rocks against his face. Her voice is tight in her ears, breathy, "B-Blackwall- please-"

He peers up, over her mound, meeting her eyes, and she can feel his beard and moustache brush against her as he speaks, "So serious, Herah? So sweet?" 

She groans, smiling a little dazedly. "Please?"

He shakes his head slightly, but she doesn't know what it means, and he speeds up, alternating between flattening his tongue against her, flickering it, feather-light, and suckling back with an audible pop.

She knows she's becoming louder, little gasps and sighs becoming more frequent, but she neither wants to release his hair nor lay back and miss watching him. It feels like every muscle in her core has tightened, and she realizes she's close. "Blackwall, Blackwall, I'm going to-"

He redoubles his efforts, and she orgasms with a stunningly loud moan and a shuddering of her hips. He looks up at her, smiling, "I don't deserve this-" 

She can barely look at him, as the heat of her body cools just slightly, almost babbling, "Good, good sweet man-"

"Oh, I'm not done-"

"W-what?"

His mouth is on her again, even though she's almost painfully sensitive, and now she does lay back, releasing his hair. Her hands scramble to find purchase, and eventually she grabs his, from her breasts, tangling their fingers together. "I'm going to- I'm going to get you back-" a sharp little sound breaks free from her, "I'm going to be so mean when I have you in my mouth."

The man moans as he continues, working her back up, and she squeezes his head between her thighs harshly. She digs her nails into his hands, as her hips begin to jerk, erratically. As she reaches that precipice again, her core is almost so tight it hurts. 

"Sweetheart- I'm- again- please-" he doesn't stop or slow, and she doesn't know if she had been asking for that. She has to cover her mouth then, to avoid alerting the guards on the wall that someone is having a messy orgasm in the barn. 

Shaking all over, she pulls her hips back, sitting up, both to kiss him and to stop any idea he has of going for a third. He lets his hands run down her body, like he wants to stop her, but he doesn't. She sits there, breathing hard, as he kneels on the floor, looking up at her. 

He's clearly surprised as she cradles his face in her hands and leans down to kiss him. After he recovers from his shock, he stands, not breaking the kiss, to wrap his arms around her. She can taste herself on him, and realizes that his beard and moustache are slightly damp as well. Everything about that just makes her want to kiss him more, and she only draws back when she needs to breathe again, leaning her forehead on his.

"You're so good to me," she says, finally.

He shakes his head, "Not nearly good enough-" 

She cuts him off, kissing him quickly, before her hands come up to begin untying his pants. He stands, breaks the kiss, shakes his head. She runs her tongue across her teeth, showing him, "I think I already told you I was going to get me pay back."

His hands stop hers, "I- you don't have to-"

She becomes still, even if she very much needs to get him out of his pants. "Sweetheart," she can see the way that nickname softens him now, "if you really don't want me to-"

"No, Maker, no- I-"

"Then are you saying you'll think less of me," she smirks, because while that would be a problem, it might make his perception closer to reality. 

He looks almost comically alarmed, "No! Herah-"

She pauses in between each of her words, putting special emphasis on every one, "Then I want you in my mouth, now."

He starts untying his pants by himself, and she leans back on her hands, letting him. It is technically her turn, to disrobe him, but something about the near frantic movement of his hands just makes her want to watch. Plus it gives her a minute to breathe as she settles into the afterglow of two orgasms, more than twice the number she's had since the beginning of the inquisition.

He glances up at her as he pulls his pants off his hips, releasing his cock, and stops. It springs free, looking painfully hard, and she has to restrain herself from leaning forward right now. She wants to tease, after all. "You're not going to stop there, are you? Not when I'm completely naked?"

He looks slightly confused, so she finally does lean forward, hooks her thumbs in his waistband and sends the offending garment to the floor. The dumbfounded little, "Oh," he lets out is a noticeable side benefit to the sight of his muscular, meaty thighs and the twitch of his cock as his hard-on strains for attention. He steps out of them, kicking them behind.

She rests her hands on the back of her knees, running them slowly up, feeling the hair beneath her palms, to grip his ass. It's not huge, but the musculature, honed from years of fighting, is certainly something to grab onto. She pulls him a step closer like that, until she's eye to eye with his cock. She takes the time to appreciate it: slightly curved upwards, not gigantically long but gorgeously thick, and jutting out from a forest of the same hair that covers his body.

"Herah?"

"Just admiring my prize," she releases one ass cheek, reluctantly, and trails her fingers slowly up his length. His breath catches in his throat, and she'll remember that, she says to herself, for later. 

She holds her palm up, in front of his face, and says in her very best purr, "Would you wet this for me?" She meets his eyes as he grabs her hand in his, presses a kiss on her palm, and then licks one long stripe from her wrist to the tips of her fingers.

"Good," she whispers, taking her hand down to grip him at his base. His hips twitch slightly, and she can't resist the urge to giggle. As slow as she can she slides her palm, gripping too gently to do much good, and watches as his foreskin slides up, and down. She sets this pace, slowly pumping him, and she can hear how his breath grows more rapid, more shallow.

"Herah, please-"

"Please, already," she smirks up at him, teasing concern dripping in each syllable, "I thought you liked to tease."

He chuckles, but it's high and tight in her throat, as her hand comes off of his ass and cradles the weight of his balls in her hand. "I could have been meaner-"

She licks experimentally over his head, staring into his eyes the entire time, and she smiles, all teeth, at the strangled little moan that happens in the back of his throat. His hand comes up, to rest on the back of her head- a feat only possible from this angle because of her broken horn- and the touch is needy. 

"Should I be sweet now, for you?" She lays just the tip of him on her tongue, looking up at him.

"Maker- wait-"

"You want me to wait, right now?"

"The horns, is it okay, can I grab them?"

She laughs, covering her mouth, and when she returns her eyes to him, she winks. "I'd say hold on for the ride."

It's an odd sound, when he chokes on his nervous chuckle as she takes him, partway in his mouth. His other hand wraps around her unbroken horn, not firmly, testing it out. She sucks back with a noisy pop, and his hand tightens then. It's not quite pain she feels when he does, but it roots her so physically to him, in that moment, that she decides the best way to tease him, now and in this moment, is to make him spend as quickly as possible.

She takes him back into her mouth, slowly sinking down around him and savoring the way he shivers as her tongue dances along the underside of his cock. He moans, a good full moan, and the pride she feels in making him make that sound translates to an escalation of her pace.

She breathes through nose as she begins to bob her head, and it seems his control falters, as his hips begin to rock. She grabs those hips, holding them firmly still: maybe on another night she'll let him have her mouth like that, and she hums with him in her mouth at the thought of another night. 

He grips onto her horn as though he's hanging over a precipice about to fall, and she backs off, feeling him shiver as he is enveloped in nothing but the cool air. Starting at the base of his cock, she presses kiss after kiss, small and gentle, up his length as she gazes up into his eyes. His mouth hangs open a little, a mixture of awe and necessity, as his breath comes out in short little puffs.

As she takes him back into her mouth, she almost misses it, as he whispers, "Please, please-" his voice gets louder, a little fearful urgency, "Herah, I'm going to-"

She takes him into her mouth as deep as she can, nose tickled by his pubic hair, and hums affirmatively around him. The only thing that keeps him from jerking his hips hard are her hands, and he actually takes his hand off her horn to muffle himself as he spends down her throat with a messy, needy little moan. She decides then that, yes, next time will be in her room: she wants to make him loud as well.

He grabs her shoulders and falls into bed with her, sending hay dust up into the moonlight. She's feeling as light as each particle, and she thinks the near goofy smile lighting up his face must be reflecting the one on hers. After rolling slightly, they end up face to face, next to each other.

She puts a hand on his chest, "So, how long until we start hearing rumors about our Warden? I think I'll start one myself: 'Somebody sounded very happy out in the barn last night'."

His eyes are trailing down and around her face, and she might have read his expression for shyness, if it wasn't for the way he held his eyebrows. Even now, there was something of sorrow and shame in him. His hand cups her cheek, "You're- I never imagined, that I'd feel this way, and I don't-"

She whispers, wants to say that she loves him but that's terrifying, in a way, because admitting that she loves him makes it far too real. Instead she uses different words: "I'd tell you to stop saying that you don't deserve this, if I didn't think you'd keep thinking it, inside. Instead I want you to know that I'm here, even for the things that hurt so bad we can't say them."

He only nods, and shifts closer, to give her the softest kiss, one that could have brought her to tears. His voice is rough when he breaks it, "Okay." She wishes she could climb through those bright blue eyes and find whatever is stopping him, but she knows she's not much better. 

She moves past it, watching as the sweat cools off his forehead. "So, can I sleep here, or do I have to sneak back to my room now?" She smiles bigger than she feels like doing.

"The only way I’m letting you out of here right now is if the barn is on fire,” his voice settles softly around a very small smile. 

He doesn’t move, so she speaks, “Well, if I’m sleeping here, do you have any blankets?”

“It might surprise you to know that they are all, currently, on the floor,” he rolls over, reaching for them.

“How could they have gotten there, I wonder?” She smirks as he spreads what could be charitably called a blanket over them, but is actually just a large fur. He pauses once he’s done, seemingly trying to figure out how he’d like to lay down. 

She lifts up her arm, as she lays on her side, beckoning him to lay against her. He doesn’t meet her eyes as he does, but even though there’s some strange nervousness in the curve of his spine against her, she sighs at the feeling of him in her arms. 

In the silence, a while later, when she’s at the edge of sleep, she hears him whisper, “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I'm sorry, it takes me forever to actually write smut, especially because this is the first time I've posted any online. Also this chapter is just wildly longer than the other chapters, that kind of happened organically. I hope you all enjoy!


End file.
